


Call Me by My (True) Name

by TheAnswersInTheWind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (let's be honest - I forgot to write the romance half the time... too aro to function!), Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Names, Magic!Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, No Sex, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Poisoning, Slow Build, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnswersInTheWind/pseuds/TheAnswersInTheWind
Summary: Since childhood, Stiles defined himself by his service to Scott McCall, future Beacon of the Hill.Under the threat of a looming Argent war machine, Stiles - a mage with no training - accompanies Scott to a neighboring kingdom to officiate signing the Hill into the Allied Hale Forces.   Events lead him into the service of another man, Prince Derek of Hale, and to make a decision that will change the names and magics that define them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is my first publication on AO3 and I'm delighted to share this will you after frankly years of fretting over each chapter.  
> Stiles and Scott are 16 in the prologue, 18 when the story begins and Derek is in a smudgy early twenties zone.  
> As a warning, Derek begins this story trapped in an arranged marriage with an abusive Kate. Kate's presence is limited from that point forward.  
> Please feel free to leave constructive criticism and comments are you are able.  
> Enjoy!

~ Prologue ~

“Stiii-les,” Scott moaned out as the first stars began to peek through the leafy canopy above them. “We should go back. There’s nothing out here.”

“Greenburg said he saw glowcaps out here a week ago.” Stiles carried on, his feet sure of the mossy forest floor beneath him.

“You don’t actually care about glowcaps. I found some last summer and you barely glanced at them. Come on, let’s just go home.”

“You’re right, I could care less about glowing mushrooms, but using ground up glowcaps to paint a mustache on Jackson’s face that is only visible when he can't use a mirror to see it, now that’s something I’m interested in.”

Scott sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. “You’re an ass.”

“True, but Jackson is a bigger ass. The biggest ass. The Ass Master- wait no, that almost sounds like a compliment- stop laughing and help me find mushrooms or I’m revoking your best friend privileges and bestowing them on Danny. Or maybe just on Danny’s perfect abs. Ah, sweet Danny.”

“You’re gross.” teasing lightly, Scott paused to catch his breath.

A loud branch cracked from behind them.

“Yeah, well your lack of stealth is gross Mr. Knight-in-training.”

“Stiles… That wasn’t me.”

Both boys froze and stared out into the dark woods. Another crash rang through the night like entire trees collapsing.

“Stay behind me.” Scott ordered, drawing a heavy practice sword from his belt.

“Those are meant for weight training…” Stiles eyed the blunt blade briefly before casting his eyes back towards where they could hear trees falling. Whatever it was, it sounded big and was definitely getting closer.

“Better than nothing.” Scott grit out, his feet in a stance ready for battle. It was hard not to admire the young Lord’s bravery. Stiles’ hands opened and closed reflexively at his sides. He squinted at the ground hoping to see the edge of a large branch he could use as a club if need be.

A blood chilling roar shattered the night air. Stiles felt his heart rate begin to climb.

“Werewolf?” He forced out in a whisper. Scott’s head gave a grave bob in the thin moonlight.

The trees shook, limbs snapped, and a massive trunk came barreling toward the two teenagers. The giant wolf-like beast tore past the remaining branches that grasped at it’s shoulders. Gleaming red eyes glared down at the two boys just before it struck outwards with a powerful jaw. 

The force of the feral werewolf’s bite was more than the sixteen year old Lord could handle. Scott’s nearly useless sword was wrenched from his grip after only a handful of blows. 

“Scott!” Stiles cried in warning as the snapping maw sought to bite his friend in half. Forcing his legs to move forward and help, Stiles felt his feet go out from under him, tripping over the discarded practice blade. Scott’s pained cry rang out and Stiles’ heart shuddered for a moment until he grasped Scott’s sword and lunged at the beast. The massive werewolf dropped Scott and dodged before Stiles’ hit could even graze it. 

In the faint moonlight, Stiles could see the blood soaking Scott’s side. His thoughts racing, Stiles realized, _Scott is going to die. I probably will too, but Scott… Scott is going to bleed out in the cold dark night and then be devoured by a feral wolfman all for some stupid prank._

Stiles felt warm, hot even despite the chilled air. He gripped the sword once more and faced the werewolf, his anger and fear pooling in his stomach and pounding behind his eyes. Stiles felt the pressure build and press and burn inside him until all he could do was scream into the night. Stumbling, he forced the dull sword into the ground with two hands wrapped around the hilt for balance. Heat seemed to rush out of him in all directions, cracking like lightning, charging the air.

A gentle wind brushed Stiles’ hair as his hands slipped from the sword and he hit the mossy forest floor. The shifter shrieked out a pained howl. The scent of burning hair and meat assaulted Stiles’ senses, tipping him into unconsciousness. 

~ Two Years later ~

Prince Derek sat on the dais with a stony expression as he watched the pageantry of nobles dancing across the marble floor. Serving staff buzzed about the great hall with practiced efficiency keeping glasses full and guests smiling. Laura and Cora were down there, charming the pants off young lords and catching the eyes of young ladies. He considered trying to find them in the swirling kaleidoscope of silk skirts and tailored suits but opted for taking a strong swig from his goblet instead. The night was turning out as miserable as expected.

The room quieted quickly when his mother suddenly stood to speak. 

“Another year, another harvest ball,” Queen Talia began with a radiant smile, her voice carrying powerfully throughout the silent hall. “This year we have more to celebrate than an excess of grain. This year we share in the bounty of loyalty. Three new independent holdings join us this night to swear an oath of allegiance to the Allied Hale Forces, bringing our coalition to twenty-three strong. In return, I promise these three states what was promised to the other twenty, that we will all enjoy the support and security only unity can provide in the face of a mutual threat.” 

Respectful clapping punctuated the paragraphs of her speech. Derek tried to look interested but a gnawing worry stole his focus. He was supposed to be down there with his sisters and guests. He was supposed to be smiling and laughing, listening to his mother’s words of unity. He was supposed to have Kate at his side. 

Derek balled up his fists on his knees and dug his claws into the palms of his hands. House Hale, being the largest of the eastern independent holdings, had become a rallying point over the past 18 months as lords rode in to formally join the Allied Hale Forces. They came in fear the amassing Argent war machine. Most believed a war to maintain independence of Argent control was inevitable and saw the Hales as the only kingdom powerful enough to even hazard a hope of maintaining some degree of independence.

But war could be prevented altogether - or at least that was Queen Talia’s hope - if only Derek could persuade the affections of Crown Princess Katherine of Argent. Yet he’d failed tonight and it felt like yet another nail in his nation's coffin. Parties were hard to enjoy when he couldn’t help but see dead men and women dancing across the polished floor.

“Derek.” Queen Talia’s voice broke through his dark thoughts, her hand resting gently upon his clenched fists. “You seemed excited when I saw you this afternoon. Where is Princess Katherine?”

Derek flinched. He’d tried to court her as his mother had asked. He’d been nothing but kind and patient, exhibiting enthusiasm in everything Kate deemed interesting, listening attentively to all Kate wanted to say while mincing his own words. She had even smiled last week when they’d walked in the gardens and Derek thought they'd made progress. Kate however had refused to attend the ball when he’d stopped by her chambers to escort her as one should do for their betrothed. She was dressed for the ball in a cream colored dress that fit all of her curves and draped elegantly off her hips to the floor. _No_ , he’d quickly realized, _she’s not refusing to attend the ball. She’s refusing to attend the ball_ **_with me_ ** _._

“Derek?” His mother’s tone held lightly concealed concern, her brow crinkling.

“She will be here. She… She preferred to come alone.”

Derek couldn’t bear to look his mother in the eyes, imagining her disappointment hurt enough. 

She squeezed his hand gently, “The night is still young, do your best to enjoy yourself.” Queen Talia ran her thumb over his hand encouragingly and left him alone on the dais.

A breath of loneliness later and Derek heard his name shouted across the crowd. 

“Derek! Derek come join us!” The gorgeous blonde called from the center of the ballroom. Lady Erica grinned as their eyes met. Derek stood slowly and moved to meet her. Lady Erica was always one to get her way.

As he approached, Derek took in how Erica had changed. It had been two years since word came from the Hill of a feral werewolf attack and a plea for a tutor to teach control to the Beacon’s newly-turned son. Queen Talia had been horrified at the news of the attack. The Hales had worked for generations to improve the image of shifters across the lands. Shifters were still unwelcome in the holdings of the Argents, but places like the Hill had long served as havens for were-folk. An attack as brutal as the one described could mean making an enemy of an age-old ally. 

Instead of sending a common soldier to train the teenager, Talia had personally asked Lady Erica to go. Derek suspected that there was more to Erica’s placement; she was highborn and loyal to the Hales. Perhaps living beside the Beacon of the Hill for two years had been enough to persuade Beacon Melissa to bring the Hill into the fold of the Allied Hale Forces. Derek blinked away his speculations and cast his gaze once more on Lady Erica.

She had grown over the past two years, transforming from a self conscious lanky teen into a stunning young woman. Her dress was soft and red, seemingly made purely from rose petals and accented with gold flecks. Her blonde curls were piled high upon her head and a small diadem rested gracefully upon her brow. _Breathtaking_ seemed the only adjective suitable for describing Lady Erica’s return to court.

Erica moved to meet him, pulling two young men along with her.

“Derek! It’s been too long!” Erica let go the men’s hands and threw an arm over Derek’s shoulder, drawing him in for a quick hug. She never was one for court formalities.

“It has.” He said simply. Erica’s departure from the palace seemed to mark the end of when he’d honestly been happy. _Or perhaps it was that Kate arrived a week after_. His traitorous mind supplied.

“Derek, I’d like to introduce you to the world’s worst student-” Erica playfully swatted at the man on her right, a tall fellow with tan skin and dark curls. His jaw was slightly off kilter; his smile was genuine. By his scent, Derek could tell he was a shifter. “Scott McCall, future Beacon of the Hill.”

The young man, future-Beacon McCall, seemed to remember himself as he approached respectfully and bowed his head as far as custom demanded. 

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, your highness.”

“The honor is mine.” Derek extended his hand and was pleased by the firm shake he received. Derek’s late father had always said you could tell much about a man by his handshake. McCall’s hands were rough and calloused in areas that spoke of hard work with both a sword and a plow. McCall may be a lord in his own right but he certainly did not spend his days apart from his people.

“And this,” Erica cut in, “is Batman.” Erica laughed brightly at a joke which flew straight over Derek’s head.

McCall shot him a pained look, “She and Stiles heard the same stories as kids. I don’t understand what they’re on about most of the time.”

The aforementioned Stiles cracked a smile at Erica and mentioned something about women who changed into a cat. Werewolves and werefoxes, heck even werebears Derek had heard about, but a batman or catwoman? Utterly ridiculous.

This second man stepped forward and extended his own hand in greeting, a symbol of equality among common men but a shocking statement within the circles of high society to approach a prince in such a casual manner. 

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski, confidant to the future Beacon of the Hill.” The man’s amber eyes spoke volumes though his tone was light. This man knew exactly what he was doing by asserting himself as an equal instead of waiting for Derek to initiate as he had with Scott. While he’d never admit it, Derek was intrigued.

“Prince Derek Hale, Second to the future Queen and Alpha of Hale.” Derek returned the handshake, catching a minute tilt to the corners of the other man’s eyes. This was a test and Derek wasn’t entirely sure if he passed or not.

Stilinski’s hand did not have the strength that McCall’s did nor the same calluses. _He’s not a fighter_ , that was clear. As their hands parted, Derek noticed the ink stains at Stilinski’s fingertips. _An academic perhaps_. 

“If I’m not mistaken, Prince Hale, you are in charge of trade routes and goods redistribution within the lands the Hales partner with - and not to forget a shared custody of the military with Princess Laura. I would like to speak with you at your leisure regarding the imports the Hill requires and the exports we can contribute to the Allied Forces.” Stiles’ words were spoken evenly and confidently, although they sounded a bit practiced.

“Stiles, no!” A scandalized Erica cut in, “There will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow, or preferably later cause I’m seeing a hangover in your future.”

McCall chuckled and Stilinski let the topic drop easily as Erica passed the young man a champagne flute from the tray of a roving server.

They spoke until the musicians started playing a new piece and Erica shrieked, taking McCall’s hand in her own.

“We’re dancing.” 

Stilinski laughed at the fear on McCall’s face and held his hand out to Derek.

“May I have this dance Lord Prince?”

“I don’t really…” Derek paused and sighed, noting the playful gleam illuminating the younger man’s eyes. Taking Stilinski’s hand, Derek allowed himself to be lead onto the dance floor. 

The music was quick-paced and loud, pushing them faster and faster with every beat. Stilinski was like fire come to life, gracefully flitting about Derek, his fingers a light flutter over Derek’s arms or his shoulders and once his hips leaving trails of heat in their wake. Derek could hear Erica’s pained growl and McCall’s soft apology for stepping on her toes which only made Stilinski laugh.

The music slowed and softened. Derek drew Stilinski in close as the style of dance demanded. He could see the moles peppered across the younger man’s cheeks, down his neck. Derek tracked them down to the collar of Stiles’ shirt and couldn’t help but wonder where all the younger man had moles hidden.

“This is a good look on you.” Stilinski’s voice came softly near Derek’s ear. Derek raised one eyebrow and Stilinski breathed a light chuckle. “You’re smiling. It’s a good look on you. From the dais you looked every bit a sourwolf. If you don’t mind me saying, Lord Prince, a smile suits you much better.”

The man was bold. His lack of discretion would certainly get him into trouble here at court but Derek found that he didn’t care to reprimand Stilinski’s forward speech. In the stiff world of master and servant, king and subject, the easy feeling of equality Stilinski fostered was surprisingly refreshing.

Sharp nails suddenly dug into Derek’s shoulder before he could reply. Pulled back harshly, the devastating beauty of Kate Argent filled his vision. Derek felt frozen, only able to watch as Kate pried his hand out of Stilinski’s own. 

“How could you Derek?” Her voice was sickly sweet with a cutting edge, “You attend the festivities without me and dance with some commoner? What am I to think?!” 

_Please don’t make a scene_ , Derek pleaded internally, _Please, I’m sorry, just please!_

Stilinski shook off his own shock quickly and bowed deeper than necessary. His face was blank and neutral, such a jarring deviation from the laughing dancing man Derek had seen mere moments before. Resentment for this hateful woman burned acidic in Derek's stomach.

“Forgive me my Lady, the fault rests with me,” Stilinski intoned reverently as he rose from the bow, looking at her shoulder in deference instead of her eyes. “I was so overcome with awe at meeting Prince Derek that I begged him for a dance. I had not known he was spoken for.” Stiles spread out his hands in a pacifying gesture.

 _He makes me sound like some kept boy!_ Derek felt his face heat up. At least Stilinski’s voice was low enough to keep this conversation somewhat private in a full ballroom. Derek held his breath and waited for Kate’s reply.

Kate glared, assessing the teen. After a beat, she extended her own hand. The moment Stilinski’s hand grasped hers, she yanked yanked him close. 

With perfectly roughed lips she hissed in his ear, “Make sure you do well to remember that.” 

Ending the mockery of a handshake, she pushed back and let go, turning so her whole attention was refocused on Derek; Stilinski completely forgotten. Derek began to sweat beneath her gaze.

Kate gracefully lifted her arm and raised one petite eyebrow expectantly. Jerkily, Derek took her arm and lead her off the dance floor. 

“To your chambers.” She said sharply near his ear and Derek fought his desire to push her away. He had a duty though, a war to prevent, lives to save. Nothing came without a cost and his happened to be Kate.

“This way Princess.” The words tasted like mountain ash in his mouth.

*****

“Who was that awful woman?” Stiles demanded in a whisper as he, Scott, and Erica watched Derek marched off the floor. The lady was beyond beautiful by all standards but her eyes held something sinister. _And there was something else_ , Stiles flexed his hand, looking to where the woman’s fingers had brushed against the back of his hand while threatening him. His eyes told him there was nothing there, but his skin crawled and itched at the point of contact. 

“Crown Princess Katherine Argent, Heir to the Argent throne,” Erica waspishly bit out. “She is Derek’s betrothed.” she added sadly. “I’d hope she’d be… I suppose she _is_ an Argent and there was never much hope there to begin with, but Derek…”

“Deserves better?” Stiles spoke so softly only the ears of a shifter standing next to him would be able to hear. Erica gave an abbreviated nod.

“That was not the Derek I remember.” Erica was, for once, hard to read. If not for the dark gleam in her eyes, Stiles would have been unaware of the hurricane within her.

“He used to be so full. Full of spirit and confidence.” Erica’s voice held a fierce longing, “Tonight though… it's like he was a shadow of that man.”

“Abuse will do that you you.” Stiles cut in.

Scott's head turned painfully fast towards Stiles. “You don't think…”

“Yes Scott, I do. I've visited enough battered spouses with my father to recognize the signs.” Stiles felt hot anger running through him and he clenched his fist. He would very much like to punch princess Argent right in her perfect nose.

“Stiles, your hand! Are you okay?” Scott’s worried whisper broke into Stiles’ more violent musings. He followed Scott’s gaze to where his hand was shaking badly, the same hand Kate had touched. 

“Uh, I think so…” Stiles could feel the tremors begin to spread up his arm as angry heat seared beneath skin that had been cool moments before. _Not angry heat. Magic. Shit._ “But I think I need to go. Like now.”

Scott reached an arm around Stiles’ back to support him, “Thanks Erica for a lovely evening.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” Erica eyed Stiles like she too wanted to offer support but knew he wouldn’t accept her offer. He was careful when it came to his magic, something she had always respected. Erica was awesome like that.

Scott and Stiles walked together quickly through the empty palace halls towards the guest suite they’d been given for the duration of their stay. 

“Is it your magic?” Scott asked and Stiles grunted confirmation. “I thought you said you weren’t going to use it here.”

“I'm not doing this on purpose!” Stiles snapped back, his body on fire but shivering everywhere. “I think my Spark’s reacting to something.”

“No shit dude, you’re burning up. Do you need me to-”

“No, no I’ll be fine without the wards. Just get me to our room so I can lay down.”

Scott was supporting most of Stiles’ weight by the time they reached their suite. He set Stiles down gently on the bed near the window and opened the shutter to let in some cool autumn air.

“Seriously Stiles, you’re really hot.”

“Why Scottie, I had no idea you saw me that way.” Stiles’ attempt at a joke fell flat when his voice was laced with pain. “Just give me a moment-agh!” Stiles bit back a scream and a dim aura glowed all around him. 

Wisps of black steam rose from his skin, concentrated mostly around his hand. Neither boy noticed as a dark shape appeared on the back of Stiles’ hand, like illegible letters drawn in coal stark against his pale skin. His shaking intensified to a terrifying painful speed as the aura grew brighter. A second later, the shaking slowed to occasional tremors and the room was dark again. A breeze blew in from the window, lifting the char-symbol from his hand in ashy flakes. Stiles lay still, panting with each breath.

“What the hell?!” Scott sat heavily on the floor, shoulders sagging in relief.

“Yeah, that’s what I want to know.” Stiles groaned.

“Was it a panic attack?”

“No.”

“Derek?” Scott offered up.

Stiles couldn’t help but glare, “No, it wasn’t Derek. Derek was awesome, but that woman…” A single shiver streaked down Stiles’ spine like lightning. “Definitely that woman.”

“Did she curse you or something?” Scott stood, his feet in a fighting stance. Stiles held in a grin at his friend's desire to fight on his behalf. Scott was the best.

“Maybe, I don’t know. It was like… like she’s rotten at her core or something. Her hand held mine for seconds and… My magic wanted to burn her touch off. Literally.”

“Like a magic fever. Weird.”

“Tell me about it. It’s been two years Scott, I still don’t have great control but my Spark hasn’t responded that violently since... ” Stiles ran a hand over his face. “I think she’s evil, dangerous. Just like the rogue werewolf. That felt like my Spark was protecting me, a warning maybe? She's got to be up to something. Why else would a literally evil Argent be doing here?”

“Okay, Argent lady is bad news.” Scott was seriously the best friend ever for readily accepting Stiles’ conclusion. “What do you want to do?”

Stiles bit his thumbnail and mulled the question over. “All we’ve got is a hunch, a bad feeling... We need something concrete.”

“She’s not in her room…” Scott looked at Stiles with bit innocent puppy dog eyes. 

“And how do you know that?”

“She told Derek to take her to his room. Every shifter for ten meters heard it.” Scott shrugged.

“She’s too clever to leave anything laying out… but any clue could be helpful.” Stiles stood carefully and walked towards the door, Scott close on his heels. “Let’s go break an entry!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave constructive criticism and comments are you are able.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's deals with Kate while Stiles and Scott go snooping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Please enjoy :)  
> Trigger Warning: Verbally and Physically Abusive Partner.  
> Stay safe friends.

Kate’s grip on his arm was so tight it hurt, but Derek knew as well as she did that it wouldn’t leave a bruise for long. Werewolves healed too quickly for there to be any evidence of her misconduct. They entered his dark room and she let go suddenly. Wheeling on him, she smacked him open palmed across the face. 

“I’m disappointed in you Derek.” Her eyes held too bright a light for disappointment and Derek noted that her scent didn’t smell sad or hurt like a jilted lover’s might. “I thought I meant more to you.” She rested her hand against his cheek in a mockery of tenderness and Derek felt his muscles tense in sick anticipation.

“Kate-”

“No Derek. I see how it is.” Her manicured nails dug into the soft skin of his cheek until pricks of blood welled up beneath them, “You thought you could trick me, isn’t that right?”

“I had hoped we would find love,” Derek hated that his voice sounded weak and pleading, but what else was he to do. Derek flinched as she dragged her nails down his cheek, leaving thin parallel stripes of blood in her wake.

“Shhh, Derek. I understand, I do.” She moved her bloody pointer finger to press against his lips. “You’re a dog, like all the rest of your half-breed monster kin, and dogs are loyal. You are loyal to your family and your people.” She grabbed his chin in a surprisingly iron grip, “There is no room for me.”

Kate let him go and stepped back, wrapping her arms around her body. “I was a fool Derek to think you could care for me. I was duped by the promise of love.” Her tone and posture fit the part of a heartbroken women, but the knowing glint in her eyes gave her away. They were playing a game and he was losing. Badly.

Derek shuffled his feet and forced himself to look Kate in the eyes, “I’ll admit my initial intent with courting you was to prevent war between our houses. Perhaps it is different in House Argent, but in House Hale we do not often have the luxury to marry for love. We marry for duty, for the good of our people. So yes. I am loyal to my house and my land, yet if you find it in your heart to leave your prejudice behind, I could also be loyal to you.” Derek took a deep steadying breath. “My Lady, it was my hope that we could find common ground, that we could connect and come to love one another in time while both our realms enjoy the era of peace made possible by our union.” 

It was the truth. Derek prayed it would be enough.

“Love is perhaps a luxury, but is it too much to expect to marry a  _ human _ ?! Can you even imagine what it's like being told to marry a dog? 

_I can imagine what it’s like to marry a bitch._ Derek took a deep breath. Anger would serve no purpose here.

“Have I done anything to give evidence to your preconceived notions of my kind? When have I acted as this monster you claim me to be?”

“It’s in your blood Derek. Behaving one way or another does not change what you  _ are _ .” The spite in her voice made Derek’s stomach swoop, his knees feel weak.

“What of the other day, in the gardens,” He asked desperately, “You told me the tale of the Argent Beauty and her Beast who transformed into a prince. ‘We are a fairytale in the making’, those were your words.”

Kate sighed, “It was merely a moment of homesickness. The roses reminded me how my niece has a penchant for those stories.”

“Than let’s make peace for her, for every child of our shared lands. This is a power we only share when united.” 

“You utter such sweet words.” Kate spoke softly as she moved over to the decanter of brandy Uncle Peter had given Derek for his 21st nameday. “They would sing songs of us for generations to come.” She pulled the crystal stopper from the decanter and poured two generous glasses of the amber liquid. 

“Our marriage treaty the model for future peace settlements. Babies in both lands named after us for the next hundred years.” She swirled the liquid in her glass before holding the other out to Derek. He took it, holding out on hope.

“Perhaps I have allowed preconceptions to color my time here. I came looking for monsters yet you and your people have been nothing but kind. Perhaps we could be happy.” Kate stared into the brandy in her glass, her gaze seemingly searching for something only she could see within the drink. “To a second chance and new beginnings. To us.” She said simply a weighty moment later, raising her glass in an intimate toast.

“To us.” Derek grunted in return, lifting his glass with resignation. He would be stuck with this woman for the rest of his days, but it would be worth it. Peace was worth it. Maybe time would mellow her prejudice and they could find some semblance of happiness. 

Derek drank deeply, relishing in the burn as the brandy went down.

“Peace,” Kate scoffed, “what a naive dream that is.” A threatening sort of confidence returning to replace the careful consideration her voice held moments before. Derek’s stomach dropped. “Seriously Derek. Peace? How dull. I came here looking for an excuse to start a war.” 

Frantic, Derek moved to grab Kate, to stop her, contain her, to prevent a damning truth from coming to light. Her admission meant war. Instead of swift careful movement however, he found his limbs unresponsive and his balance faltering. The crystal glass slipped from his lax grip and shattered across the floor.

“You are damn perfect though,” Kate continued, as if oblivious to Derek’s struggle. “Always a gentleman in every way, so careful, considerate, forgiving, and dare I say charming. You left nothing to complain about. Too damn perfect.” She ran her fingers over where her nails had clawed him moments before.

“Derek, do you know what I hate more than a goody-two-shoes?” She paused as if expecting an answer. Derek's tongue felt like lead behind his teeth. “I hate getting my hands dirty. You made me do this Derek, I didn’t want to but I’ve got a war to start and a deadline to meet.” Her smirk was cold and malicious. Despite what her tone suggested, she was enjoying this.

She leaned in to kiss him and Derek reared back, upsetting his precarious balance. He fell hard to the ground, his body paralyzed.

Kate laughed cruelly and pulled a small vial from between her breasts. “Kanima venom. It adds a brilliant gloss to my nails and causes paralysis when introduced to the bloodstream.” Kate lifted her skirt elegantly and sat straddled across Derek's hips. She caressed his cheek once more - stroking where his skin was still streaked with his blood now that the cuts had healed - with the back of her hand. 

“Don’t worry Derek, it will wear off in a few hours. Fortunately for me, it’ll last long enough for the wolfsbane I added to your drink to kill you.”

As she mentioned the wolfsbane, Derek started to feel the intense camping in his stomach as his body began to fight the poison.

Derek felt his heart rate increase, his expression twist in pain. Sweat broke out across his brow. He wanted to fight, to rip the hateful woman’s throat out, but all he could do was sit and wait while his organs to shut down and his heart to stop beating.

Tutting softly, Kate swiped her hand in a show of gentleness across his brow, “No worries, you won’t be alone. Your little rentboy from the party will be dying soon enough from the wasting rune I placed on his hand. The same one I gave your traitor daddy. A human who married a wolf. Fucking disgusting.”

The world swam in front of Derek’s eyes. Stilinski? Wasting rune? Kate killed his father?! 

Kate stood and paced the room with smooth easy strides, “Let’s see, I’ll need proof that you died, perhaps I’ll take your claws or maybe your fangs. I have always wanted a pair of authentic fang earrings. They'd be such a lovely little momento of our time together.”

Unexpectedly, a knock sounded against the door. “Prince Derek?” A voice called in.

Battling the pain and paralysis, Derek desperately called, “Help!” before Kate could march across the room and clamp a hand over his mouth. 

The door swung in, ripped from it’s top hinge.

An avenging angel stood in the doorway with an aura outlining him in light like clouds at sunset.

“Help” Derek rasped once more behinds Kate’s hand. His vision grayed as the pain increased and the world went black.

*****

_ Thump. Thump. Thump. _ Stiles’ footfalls hit in time with the rhythmic flickering of magic fire encircling his hands. The fire pulsated fast and thready, encasing his fingers like bright warm gloves. 

Despite the fire against his skin, it was his lungs that burned. The run from Kate’s chambers to Derek’s was practically across the entire palace grounds. After seeing her plans however, the run was necessary.

Kate was clever and meticulous. She had accounted for nearly everything while hiding any scrap of evidence which could incriminate her. 

Stiles could barely breathe when he and Scott had entered her room, lockpick slipping from his fingers as he rushed to cover his nose and mouth. A hazy miasma cloaked the room. Stiles turned to warn Scott but noted his friend seemed oblivious to the wicked haze. Stiles’ eyes stung and teared up as he scanned the room.

“There,” Stiles pointed towards a wall at the far side of the room. “There’s like evil smoke pouring out from the base of that wall.”

Scott pressed in and felt along the wall, knocking gently.

“It’s hollow Stiles!”

“A false wall?”

Scott nodded and tried to shift the wall to the right and a panel came loose revealing what appeared to have once been a closet. A small wooden chest sat pressed against the actual wall.

“Don’t touch it!” Stiles called out as Scott reached to open the chest. Stiles entered the room slowly and moved directly to Scott’s side. “There’s warding and I’d bet you a steak dinner that thing’s made of mountain ash.” 

“The lock has runes too, no way your picks will work.” Scott looked over wide eyed.

Stiles grimaced. 

“There’s something I’ve been practicing…”

“Okay… so try it.”

Glancing at Scott, Stiles’ fingers twitched. 

“What’s the catch?” Scott sighed.

“I’ve tried it twice… First time I burned the chest to ash.”

“And the second?”

“Passed out, woke up with a migraine for three days.”

“Okay. Definitely maybe don’t try it then.” Scott moved, placing his body slightly between Stiles and the mountain ash chest.

A jolt passed up Stiles’ arm. Glancing down at the spot Kate had touched, a slight tingling still radiating outward, Stiles made a fist and set his jaw.

“I don’t like that look man - you just had an episode or something! Your spark’s on the fritz and you want to what, experiment with a spell that knocked you out last time?!”

“We came here for a reason Scott. The Argent woman is up to something.”

Stiles pressed past Scott and stooped down over the chest. Holding up two fingers on his right hand, he glared at his fingertips with intense focus. Nothing.

“Uh… Stiles?”

“Just… give me a minute.”

Stiles closed his eyes and thought of the ballroom, the music still lilting in from the hall. Everyone was so happy, everyone except the prince, the prince who had sat isolated in the dias. Stiles noticed the older man the moment he and Scott had entered the room. To see someone so powerful, renowned, and frankly so  _ gorgeous _ , as miserable as Prince Derek appeared… it just felt wrong. If what Erica said was true, then Kate Argent was to blame and Stiles wasn’t about to let that keep happening. 

With that thought, a jet of flame shot forth from Stiles’ fingertips. Crinkling his brow, Stiles focused on the fire until it took the shape of a basic key. He pressed the fire key into the keyhole and jimmied his fingers back and forth, letting the flame take shape inside the tumblers until the chest sprung open. Scott leaned over Stiles’ shoulder and let loose a soft gasp at the collection of herbs meticulously stored within labeled glass vials.

“At least six illegal varieties of wolfsbane, a jumbo jar of mistletoe, some powdered mountain ash and I don’t know what the hell that slime is,” Stiles shook his head. “These don't look like the belongings of a royal diplomat, do they.” 

“None of this does us any good if we don’t know how she intends to use it.”

Stiles sighed, “Not to mention she could claim all this isn’t hers. The chest is in her room but even if she uses it to hurt someone this is merely circumstantial evidence unless we can prove intent.”

“Maybe there’s something else?” Scott was ever the optimist.

Stiles cast his eyes back over the room. The haze he’d seen had definitely been coming from this spot, yet the smog appeared strangely thick in one spot on the other side of the room. Stiles covered his nose and mouth once more and moved cautiously towards the corner of the room where light from the window never reached. Bathed in shadow, there appeared to be a black splinter wedged between two of the large white masonry stones.

“Scott, can you check the wall here?” Stiles pointed.

“Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Between the third and fourth stones up, six stones over from the corner.” Stiles directed.

Scott strode towards where he had indicated, “Careful.” The warning slipped from Stiles’ lips and the other teen nodded. 

Scott patted along the seem between the brickwork, his eyebrow’s raising when he felt something his eyes couldn’t see. 

“There’s something here!”

“It’s probably warded so you can’t see it without a Spark… Can you… can you pull it out?”

Scott nodded and reached into the obsidian miasma and pulled out a thin black rectangle.

“I think it’s a journal but I can’t read it. Is it warded?”

Scott held up the journal for Stiles to see. 

“No, it looks like it’s written in archaic latin.” Stiles reached out to touch the journal. The moment his fingertips hit the smooth dark leather of the book his vision whited out and his heart skipped a beat. 

“Derek.” He breathed out.

“What?” Scott snatched the book back away from Stiles, “Stiles, you okay?”

Stiles blinked, “The Prince!” He shouted and began racing for the door. “Scott you’ve got to get the guards in here! Erica can probably help!”

“Where are you going?!” Scott moved to follow Stiles.

“She’s after the Prince. I’m gonna try to be a big freaking hero!” The undulating flames suddenly coated both of Stiles’ hands and Stiles ran.

*****

Stiles had no idea how he knew it, but he did. The fire encasing his hands flickered in time with Derek’s beating heart. As he got closer to the prince’s chambers the pulses had become threadier. Stiles pumped his legs faster. He came at last to the door his magic pulled him towards and knocked three times, calling for the prince before gasping to catch his breath.

A long second past before a choked, “Help!” came muted through the thick oak door. Taking a steadying breath, Stiles laid his flaming hands against the door and pushed, his magic seeking entry only to meet firm resistance. 

“Come ON!” Stiles grit his teeth and urged his Spark to flow freely. The flames around his hands spread to engulf the door. The top hinge failed within milliseconds and weight of the door broke the lock. The door flew open and Stiles raced to take in the scene.

Kate was leaning aggressively over Derek, her hand clamped over his mouth. Derek’s mumbled incoherently before his eyes rolled back in his head rather alarmingly. Stiles could feel it in the way his magic twisted and throbbed. The prince was dying.

“Get away from him!” Stiles ground out, not even attempting to keep the malice from his tone.

“How dare you interrupt the private time between  _ lovers _ !” Kate’s voice toed the line between mocking and furious.

“I said. Get. Away. From. HIM!” Stiles felt the heat of his magic coursing through him and into the room. A barrier of flame came instantly between Kate and Derek, pushing her farther and farther back until she was pressed firmly against the stone wall. 

“A Spark?” Her voice both curious and irritated. “Explains why you’re not dead. Did you enjoy my gift?”

Stiles did his best to tune her out and walked quickly to Derek’s side. He didn’t need to feel for a pulse, he already knew what he would find. A heart rate slowing to a dangerous pace. Blackened veins streaking across the Prince’s face confirmed his suspicions: wolfsbane poisoning.

Stiles rested his hands against Derek’s side and shut his eyes tight, seeking the poison with tendrils of his magic.  _ Shit! _ Stiles swore internally. This was meant to be delicate work but instead of a gossamer-fine tendril, Stiles’ magic would go only as small as a thick corded rope.

“You’re untrained!” Kate’s merry laughter broke through Stiles’ concentration. His wall of flames containing her faltered for half a second. Her expression brightened.  _ Double shit! _

“How sweet. The common-born boy wants to save prince charming with his hamfisted magic. This is so like a big beautiful fairytale!” She feigned wiping a tear from her eye and continued to laugh. “I bet you don’t have the control to save him while you hold me.”

Stiles kept his eyes on Derek. He couldn’t let her see that she’s read the situation perfectly. He didn’t have control and his magic was dangerous to everyone it seemed except Scott. He’d burned his father once, cut Erica another time, and even struck Lady Melissa unconscious on one really bad day. He could save Derek - he knew he could, he had to - but he couldn’t save Derek while holding Kate with his flame barrier.

“Are you going to just sit there and watch him die? I may have poisoned him, but if you let him slip away you will be the true murderer.” Kate prodded.

“Prince Derek can hold on until the guards get here.” Stiles kicked himself for responding. Now he would never get her to stop talking.

“Oh?” Kate’s eyes were alight like a cat toying with a mouse. “Is that what you think little mage? That the guards will come on the whim of some commoner?” She paused and smirked, leaning closer towards him despite the flames near her nose. Her expression was downright predatory. “Or perhaps on the direction of some country bumpkin lordling. This kingdom is so hellbent on peace they would never investigate me, not on your word nor that of baby Beacon Scott McCall.”

Stiles bent back over Derek and tried once more to seek out the poison before it could spread further. 

“Careful boy, one wrong jet of magic and you'll push the poison right into his heart. Or perhaps you hesitate for fear of burning him alive from the inside. And wouldn’t that be a treat! The guards bursting in just in time to see your spark shred their prince from the inside! I should be thanking you. I can’t very well be blamed for murder since you’re going to kill him first!” Kate taunted and Stiles bit back a demand for her to kindly shut the fuck up. Stiles breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

In his mind’s eye, Stiles could see black webs stretching from Derek’s stomach and throat reaching towards his heart. Envisioning a net, Stiles twisted the shape of his magic chords until they created a protective barrier between the poison and Derek’s heart. Wolfsbane poisoning became fatal when it reached the heart. Stiles grit his teeth,  _ I just have to hold the poison back until a skilled healer gets here… Derek has a chance. _

Kate was clearly losing patience behind the flames. She threw barb after bard and none shook Stiles’ focus. Sweat was breaking out on Stiles’ brow, he could feel his pool of magic emptying.  __ “Where the hell is Scott with the guards?” He uttered under his breath. Apparently Kate had excellent hearing.

“Don’t you worry mage-ling. Your little lord won’t abandon you. He’s so earnest, so honest and open. That _dog_ you serve is even easier to read than Der-bear here. He'll be such a beautiful puppet on our strings in no time. Dear Scott McCall will make a _true_ _name_ for himself." 

“Do you ever shut up?” Stiles shot back before realizing his focus had crumbled and all his barriers along with it. Stiles had a split second decision: trap Kate or save Derek. The decision was an easy one, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth to let Kate go free.

Despite his efforts, he couldn't form another magic net while his hands shook and his head pounded. Black blood began to seep out the corner of prince Derek's mouth and drip from his nose. 

“I'm sorry!” Stiles whispered as he poured the rest of his magic into Derek, attempting to burn out the poison this time rather than carefully extract or contain it. He more felt than saw Kate slip from the room, catching no more than the glint of a cheshire grin spread across her face. 

Stiles felt his reserves empty and his arms quaked from exhaustion. Derek moaned and his eyes fluttered open. Merciful heavens the man had gorgeous eyes. 

“What color are they?” Stiles slurred as Derek’s gaze met his.

“Stilinski? What the…? Kate?” Derek shifted sluggishly under Stiles’ hands, upsetting Stiles’ balance. Stiles toppled forward onto Derek just as the rhythmic running of guards came into earshot.

“The cavalry has arrived. Needed to save your abs - err ass… no... life. Nice abs.” Stiles murmured before slipping unconscious.

“Stilinski? Stilinski get off!” Derek could do little more than wiggle his fingers and shift his shoulders. Laura was going to have a field day with this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and leave feedback as you are able. Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles get to chat'n

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for liberal use of swearing. While I personally don't care much for swearing, sometimes characters swear and I'm not about to sensor what feels appropriate for a scene. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m relieved.” Derek’s whisper was nearly inaudible in the quiet infirmary. “I was so convinced I’d have to spend my life as her toy to be beaten and trashed and- and _used_ over and over that I’m actually relieved she tried to kill me. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Derek breathed out a heavy sigh and lifted his head from where it was cradled in his hands to look at the unconscious figure on the bed beside his own. He didn’t get an answer, but he hadn’t expected one. Stilinski was easy to talk to… at least while comatose.

“This must make me the world’s worst prince. I’m happy about an incident that will mean war. People will die. Spouses will be widowed, children orphaned. And for what? If I had been good enough to win her over, maybe this could have all been avoided. If I’d just gotten through to Kate-”

“Bitch was crazy.” Derek jumped at Stilinski’s rasping voice.

“Stilinski?” Derek sat up stiffly on his cot. How much had the younger man heard? At a glance, Stiles still looked unconscious, his eyes closed and his body unnaturally still, but his head was now tilted towards where Derek sat.

Stiles cracked open his eyes and winced, “Call me Stiles.”

“I’ll go get a doctor…” Derek stood.

Stilin- Stiles waved his hand slowly just centimeters above the mattress, “No need your highness. I’ll be fine.” He let out a pained hiss that in no way convinced Derek he was telling the truth. Stiles groaned, “Where's Scott?”

“He's giving his statement to the palace guard. I gave permission for him to come here afterward if he likes.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed, “how long was I…?”

“You've been out for close to two hours. … uh how do you feel?” 

“Like I was hit by a mountain during an earthquake.”

“Oh.”

“And then set on fire.”

“I see.”

“By a molotov cocktail filled with enchanted fire.” Stiles’ lip quirked up at that and Derek realized he was joking. Maybe.

“And you Prince Derek? How are you?” Stiles cracked his eyes open.

Derek had to keep himself from fidgeting under the mage’s even gaze, “Stiff but alive. Thanks to you.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rose in honest surprise, “You’re okay? Not burned out from the inside?”

That statement triggered Derek's curiosity, “No… why?”

Stiles shifted one shoulder, an abbreviated shrug Derek realized, “No reason. Just checking.”

Derek reflexively laid a hand against his abdomen. The doctors had said he was warm, not dangerously feverish but a degree or two above normal ranges for a werewolf. Where Stiles had touched him had felt slightly sunburned at first but the sting had gone away as soon as his healing factor kicked in.

“Uh, no offense your highness, your princely presence is uh… regal and… stuff? But uh, if you're okay, why are you here.”

Derek sighed, “I'm on mandatory bed rest until they can be certain all of the wolfsbane is gone and to make sure the paralysis was temporary like Kate said it would be.”

“Hence the soul bearing confession?” Despite what Derek expected, Stiles’ tone held no mockery nor judgment. Derek grunted in affirmation.

“You can’t blame yourself. That bitch was seriously crazy.” The man was so candid and blunt! Certainly these were not the refined ideas of a noble yet Derek couldn’t say he minded.

Derek straightened his posture and prepared to make his argument, “If I-”

“Nope.” 

Derek paused. Only Laura cut him off like that. “But-”

“Nope.” Stiles popped his ‘p’ and rolled his eyes. “Say it with me, ‘Crazy Bitch’. ‘Nough said.”

Derek glared and crossed his arms. “In that case, the last two years of my life, all the… putting up with K-... the uh, the crazy bitch… was a waste.”

“Wrong.” Stiles was laying still again, his eyes slipping closed.

“Care to explain?”

Stiles groaned and looked towards Derek, his eyelids drooping. “You bought us time. Two years for twenty-three leaders of smaller lands, the Beacon of the Hill included, to swear fealty to the Hales. Two years for our combined lands to come together under your banner. Alone, the Hill would have been crushed by the Argents in a matter of hours. Now that we’re allied with the Hales, we stand a fighting chance. With the treaties your mother signed, we all have a fighting chance. You _stalled_ the Argents. You gave us that chance. Thanks.” 

Derek sat in silence, mulling over what the mage had said. Kate was hellbent on starting a war, she was going to get her way eventually - she always did - and Derek postponed that. A bubble of pride settled in his chest. 

He had long ago convinced himself that peace would be worth the pain. That pain meant two extra years of peace, of time to ready themselves and gain allies.

“I should be thanking you.” Derek said at last.

“Hunh?” Stiles roused, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“I should be thanking you. I owe you my life.” Derek held the younger man’s gaze.

“Uh, yeah, no problem.” Stiles shifted awkwardly.

“You should receive a public commendation.”

“Naw, if you have to, tell everyone it was Scott. The boy needs a reputation beyond ‘crooked jaw’, ‘awkward dancer’, and ‘puppy dog eyes’.” 

“He’s already getting a medal for ‘heroic services rendered to crown and country’. Laura is planning a ceremony.”

Stiles smiled lazily, “Good. He deserves it. Did he get the guards to come?”

Derek nodded, “He found Erica quickly. She was with Lady Lydia Martin-”

“The Banshee?” Stiles interjected.

“Yes, Lady Lydia is a banshee. Don't interrupt. Lydia’s studied the form of archaic latin Kate-” Derek sighed at Stiles’ sideways glare, “that the crazy bitch used in her journal. There was enough evidence to get her brought in for questioning at the very least.”

“Should let her rot for a while before asking questions.” Stiles somehow managed to sink further into the mattress and sighed contentedly. Derek stayed quiet. Stiles cracked one eye open, his tone resigned, “She escaped didn’t she?”

Derek nodded and Stiles let loose a volley of curses.

“We have troops searching the palace and the immediate outlying lands but we’re pretty sure she’s long gone. There's evidence she had help, one of our guardsmans, man named Daehler.” 

“Manipulative crazy BITCH!” Stiles made a fist and punched the mattress weakly. Derek watched as Stiles took a handful of deep calming breaths and laid back again, albeit his posture was more rigid than before. 

In the silence that followed, Derek looked away, out a nearby window.

“She killed my father.”

The silence grew more oppressive until a soft, “I’m sorry,” came from the teen’s bed. “King Darian was a good man. Kind to his people. The gods Judged him fairly.” 

Derek frowned, letting his grief over his father’s death fill him. It all made sense now. Roughly three months after Kate’s arrival, King Darian had gotten sick and couldn’t seem to get better. The healers had all been baffled as to why none of their remedies or magics could stop the wasting sickness. Even if their ministrations had worked, Kate had access to the King and the ability to renew the charm frequently.

The full scope of Kate’s words suddenly hit him.

“Stiles! She put the rune on you too!”

“Huhn? Ooooh.” The young mage’s eyes grew.

“I’ll get the healers!”

“Wait. Prince Derek, wait.” Stiles stretched his hand a bit farther to catch Derek’s wrist. It took him a moment to catch his breath. Derek noticed how warm the teen’s fingers were as he held Derek with a shaky weak grip.

“I… I already took care of it.” the younger man mumbled in a way that was not all that convincing.

“Took care of it?” Derek prompted.

“After you left the party… my Spark did a thing and… took care of it. Must have been the ‘gift’ the crazy bitch mentioned.”

Derek grunted and sat back on his cot. A pensive silence grew around them.

“What happens now?” Stiles’ voice cut through Derek’s thoughts some time later.

“War council.” Derek steepled his hands and glared at the floor. “Mother’s already scheduled one for tomorrow at dawn.”

“Take Scott.”

“What?” Derek looked up at Stiles. The other man stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Take Scott with you to the war council.”

“Why would I do that?” This commoner was easy to talk to, insightful even but he had no right to make demands of a prince!

Stiles turned his head to stare Derek directly in the eyes, “You said you owe me your life and by werewolf law that means you are indebted to me.”

“You’re not a shifter.” Derek couldn’t believe the gall of this human to invoke the old laws.

“Doesn’t matter because _you_ are and it was your life being saved, not to mention I'm technically part of Scott's pack which grants me honorary status but that's getting into semantics. Point is, you owe me a life debt and I’m cashing in big guy. You will instate Scott as one of your Seconds - before you protest, I know you’ve already got three betas but in times of war a fourth can be selected with the assumption that one of your three may fall. Of course, You won’t let that happen, but loopholes are a beautiful thing.” 

_Who the heck is this guy!?_ He’d have to double check, but Derek had the suspicion that this Stiles fellow knew the ancient pack codes better than he did. 

Collecting his thoughts, Derek questioned, “You want me to take Scott into battle?”

“No, I want you to keep Scott by your side, to train him in how to lead and to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed if your lovely mother sends the Hill’s forces to the frontlines. You’re revered by your men and supposedly one hell of a strategist according to your generals’ classified accounts that I definitely did not get my hands on and read thoroughly at any point in time.”

Stiles trailed off and took a breath before refocusing on Derek and stating clearly, “I’m evoking the ‘brother’s right’. I’m transferring the debt you owe me over to Scott. You’ll protect him with your life if it comes to that.” Stiles was dead serious.

Derek suddenly had a bitter taste in his mouth, “And here I thought you saved my life out of the goodness of your heart.” 

“I did.” Stiles replied matter of factly. “You didn’t deserve to die. I’m not however the kind of person to pass up an opportunity. Scott’s my family. I’ll do anything to protect him.” 

Derek brooded for a long moment. Erica trained Scott, she seemed to like him despite the harsh criticism she'd often wrote in her many letters to Derek while staying at the Hill. To take the boy on as a Second though... the very thought of a stranger being placed at the heart of his pack upset his wolf. 

“This arrangement is strategic for you as well.” Stiles’ voice was patient and even, not pushy despite what he was asking. “The Hill and neighboring territories are not used to having a prince to follow. We're good fighters on our own but we're no army. You’re going to have to train us to work together and earn our trust. Many of the Allied lands, the Hill included, have long been meritocracies. There's a good chance you've already been written off as entitled and inept simply because you were born into a position of power. Picking Scott after he valiantly came to your rescue is a tune they'll recognize and respect.” Stiles paused and Derek thought he might be finished, then Stiles grinned mischievously and added, “Scott is well like and ridiculously charismatic - a category you're kind of lacking in Sourwolf. With Scott at your side, the new members of your battalion will feel represented and valued, not like they're being thrown to the wolves… or rather sent by the wolves? Cause Hales are werewolves...You get the idea.”

“You just insulted the prince of Hale.”

“I certainly did.”

“I should have you publicly flogged for that.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true, Sourwolf. With that truly impressive resting bitch face of yours you have the public appeal of limp celery. Grumpy limp celery.”

“You’re an ass.” The insult slipped out, but Derek didn’t feel like taking it back.

“I’m the Ass Master.” Stiles smirked, casting Derek a glance which could be categorized as flirtatious. When he knew he had Derek’s attention the mage tossed in a wink for good measure. 

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“You tell me, your highness.” Stiles moved his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

_The nerve of this guy_. Derek huffed a laugh and cracked a smile before turning away from the teen in the bed beside his own. Derek mulled Stiles’ words for a moment before he stood, willed his hand to shift, and laid a clawed hand over his heart. Looking a suddenly somber Stiles in the eyes, Derek spoke formally, “I accept your use of the brother’s right and swear I shall do what is within my power to ensure Scott survives this war as he serves by my side. Happy?”

“Downright gleeful.” Stiles sounded anything but. The younger man shifted slightly beneath his blankets but stopped suddenly with an abrupt hiss followed by a grunt.

“What’s wrong with you?” Derek didn't bother holding the question back. If Stiles was allowed to be blunt, why not respond in turn?

Stiles quirked an eyebrow and glanced towards Derek, “Used up my magic. Saving you took a lot of work - and that’s after I apparently saved myself from a horrible death by wasting rune and opened an unpickable lock. Considering I’m not exactly trained I’d say-”

_Not exactly trained…_

“You burned poison out of me with an untrained Spark?!” Derek suddenly realized the intent of Stiles’ concerned questions earlier. He could have as easily killed Derek as save him.

“It worked didn’t it?” Stiles’ tone was frustrated and strained with exhaustion.

“You're an idiot for even trying! What were you thinking?!”

“That you were dead either way!” Stiles fired back, his eyes flickering like flames for an instant before he let out a pained moan and collapsed backwards onto the mattress.

“Stiles?” Derek asked quietly.

“My control is shot. I need to rest or I'll be out for a lot longer than two hours.” Stiles’ voice came softly, his eyes closed and his body stilled. Derek wished etiquette would allow him to take the other man's pain. His suffering seemed so needless when werewolves have the means to relieve him. Derek let out a long slow breath. The more polite choice would be to do as Stiles asked and let him sleep.

“I’ll go inform Scott he'll need to prepare for the war council. And Stiles,” Derek waited until Stiles cracked his eyes open, “please keep what was said here between us.”

“Your emotional revelations and ensuing retrospective angst are safe with me your highness.”

Derek sighed and fought back a grin. He moved for the doors of the infirmary but was stopped by a softly exhaled, “Prince Derek?”

“Yes Stiles?”

“If you come across Lady Martin, would you mind asking if she'll come visit me?”

 _Lady Lydia Martin?_ “I’ll ask her.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles fell silent and Derek slipped into the hallway, his future being, he realized, more uncertain than it had been in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and provide feedback as you are able - your thoughts are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find themselves in a war they hoped would never come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for battle sequence with moderate descriptions of gore, violence towards animals (horses), sensory overload, and war-related traumas.

Roughly 6 months later

A silver-tipped arrow sailed past, leaving a thin cut along Derek’s right cheekbone. The Hale allied forces might have the Argent’s beat with numbers, but the range weapons and skill of Argent’s archers made approaching the enemy fortress nearly impossible.

As the silver cut healed slowly, Derek surveyed the battle field from his stirrups with tired eyes and a persistent headache. Ahead of him, the cavalry troops attempted the eleventh charge of the day towards the Argent stronghold and were met with a minefield of ankle-breaking pitted holes. Horses screamed as they tripped and forelimbs snapped at the fetlock. Riders went down hard, some becoming pinned beneath panicking steeds. 

Soldiers on the right had just been hit by flaming catapult missiles - Isaac and Scott rallied troops as they shared command of the right flank. On his left, Derek watched as a volley of falling silver shards laid waste to a swath of his soldiers. For every atrocity the Argents leased, Derek’s forces met them blow for blow. Smoke billowed from behind the fortress walls and Allied archers encouraged the fire with volley after volley of flaming arrows of their own. An explosion from within the Argent fortress shook the ground and rattled the ancient fortress’ stone walls. Derek’s head throbbed harder as the soundwave hit him.

_ This is wrong.  _ Derek clenched his teeth, fangs peeking out from his lips as pain and anger tugged at his control. 

_ So much senseless death is wrong _ . 

He made out the shape of Boyd’s broad shoulders with a limp body slung across them through the haze, calling out commands to the soldiers on the left flank. Erica’s cavalry horn blew out riding orders somewhere ahead of him. A greenish flicker drew Derek’s eyes back to the fortress where Princess Katherine’s personal banner flew below the Argent standard on the well defended ramparts. 

Pouring out from between the cracks in the enemy’s fortress walls, a cloud of greenish vapor streaked towards the right flank lightning fast. The Miasma draped heavily over the right flank and soldiers immediately staggered, lost balance, and fell. A crackling dome of lightning rose over the flank as Allied mages pushed the toxic vapor back towards the Argent’s walls. Soldiers were left gasping for breath in the red-stained mud. Others lay too still. Too quiet.

_ Are you going to just sit there and watch them die?  _ Kate’s sickly sweet tone filled his head. From his centralized command position, Derek tightened his hold on the reigns and urged his mount forward, racing towards the left flank where those wounded by the arrows were being pulled back and another battalion of good men and women raced forward to fill their places - just in time for another shower of the accursed silver arrowheads. 

_ This is all my fault _ . The thought sprung to Derek’s mind as he watched a young woman some 50 meters out helping a helmeted soldier limp away from the carnage. Another soldier screamed in agony as silver buried itself deep into flesh. The scent of blood, burnt hair and skin, urine, vomit, shit, and death accosted Derek’s nose. Cries, shouts, curses, explosions, wails fractured the smoky air. The chaos of war closed in on him.

_ I couldn’t stop this. I should have- _

Just as Derek was reaching the left branch, a rider tore towards him wearing the deep blue jacket of an Allied Forces messenger. The woman had deep umber skin and a series of long scars raking up her neck continuing past her jaw and across her left cheek.

“Prince Commander, Argent forces are attacking the rear!” Messenger Braeden spoke quickly yet clear despite the din of battle. “They appeared suddenly behind our easternmost lines.”

Derek wheeled his horse around, and for a moment his vision swam, his head throbbed, but he dug his heels into his mount, urging the horse to move faster. As expected, Braeden followed.

“Ride to the mages, tell them to spare whoever they can and get protections set up a the rear and around the wounded. Redirect a score of calvary riders as well - we need to ensure a route for retreat if need be.”

Braeden nodded, having memorized his orders. 

“Isaac can handle command of the right flank, send Scott to the rear with a company to shore up defenses around the wounded. Dismissed.”

As Braeden rode hard for the right flank with his orders, Derek pushed his warhorse to the rear. How did Kate get behind them? Had her father sent reinforcements? No. Their spies would have reported if any of King Gerard's troops moved their way. 

Using his cavalry sword, Derek swung downward, cleaving an Argent fighter - kid couldn’t have been older than fifteen - who was about to run through an Allied-Hale foot soldier. Derek’s man regained his footing and nodded gratefully up at the Prince Commander.

"Report! Where did you first see the Argents attack from?"

The tired young man squared his shoulders, "Looks to be a tunnel, sir."

_ Tunnels, of course the backstabbing lying bitch would pick a fortress with fucking tunnels. _

“Where are the tunnel entrances?” Derek called down.

“There’s only one my Lord, many came through before attacking, hid behind a hillock, but there’s fewer Argents than we first thought.” The soldier wiped a grimy hand across his dirt streaked forehead. “Maybe 20 or so fighters. It was the surprise that got us.”

Derek grit his teeth, eyeing the bodies around him. Too many familiar faces lay blankly around him.

“Show me the tunnel.” He ordered.

The soldier turned to lead him just as a catapult missile exploded the ground mere meters to Derek’s right. His horse was toppled and rocky shrapnel embedded into Derek's skin. It took several heartbeats for Derek’s vision to clear and for the ringing to fade from his ears. Pain in his head pulsed and throbbed. On his right, only half of the foot soldier he'd been speaking with remained by his side, the other half of his body was buried somewhere beneath a few tons of flaming rock. 

“Fucking Bitch!” Derek bellowed, his wolf rushing to the surface as his heart beat faster and adrenaline flooded his veins beyond the usual battle high. Rushing blood roared in his ears and the pain in his head seemingly doubled. 

He got to his feet, shaking with fury and ignoring pain, the magic of the shift egging him onward. His horse was missing, the men around him dying, and every fiber within him hunted the battlefield for Katherine Argent.

“Derek!” He turned his red eyes to stare down the approaching soldiers, a young man at the front with a crooked jaw and sweat matted dark hair.

_ Pack _ . The Wolf knew the scent.

“Derek, are you alright?!” The Second approached.

“Shit Scott, stop. Look at him.” A paler, scrawny human approached. The pack smell was there but not as strong. The smell of ozone clung to this one.

“That’s a lot of blood, man.”

“I’ll handle this Scott. Take your men and find the tunnel, we’ll join you soon.” The pale one, a scent like lightning, spoke to the Second who nodded and called to his men.

“Derek.” Scent like Lightning said the name like a careful condemnation. “You’ve got a head injury. You need to get ahold of yourself - of your wolf. Let me take a look.”

Derek growled. Scent like Lightning should know about the hunt.

“Kate” he ground out around his fangs and Scent like Lightning’s eyes burned with understanding.

“She’s not out here, not on the battlefield.”

_ I hate getting my hands dirty. _ The woman’s poison words in his head made his claws extend longer, the growl more fierce this time.

“Fort.”

“That’s right Caveman. Now put the wolfy costume away and let me get a look at your head so we can bring the party to her.” Scent like Lightning was close enough now the Wolf could feel power crackling in the air around them. A richer scent - pine needles and cinnamon - hid beneath the lightning smell like a cherished memory. The Wolf liked this one, liked his scent, his voice. The Wolf buried it’s muzzle into the human’s shoulder taking in the scent of pack and lightning to protect him from the stench of war. The Wolf would listen.

Derek felt himself retake control from his baser instincts and rolled his head along a fit shoulder. He fixed his blurred vision on Stiles's face at an upward angle, “Head wound?”

Stiles nodded grimly, “Can you kneel down?”

Derek pressed his nose to Stiles' shoulder and took a deep breath before allowing his knees to crash to the ground. The earth beneath him seemed to sway and he felt his stomach roll. 

“Looks like you’ve got a piece of silver shrapnel uh… in your head. Not too deep, just enough to slow your healing.”

“Stiles… Think I’ve got a concussion.” Derek focused on making his words come out unslured. “Making control difficult.” His fangs slid down and he willed them back.

“Kay, yeah, hold on Sourwolf.” Stiles made a whimper followed by some muttering Derek was certain Stiles hadn’t intended for him to hear.

“You’ve got this Stilinski.” The mage coached himself, “Just pull the shiny metal bits away from the squishy body bits and the wolfy healing with fix the rest. Stick your dirty fingers into the prince’s head wound, yeah, hyging, what’s that on a battlefield? Melissa would kill me if she knew I wasn’t washing my hands first-”

Derek’s attention was ripped from Stiles’ whispered rant as a sharp pain made itself known above his right ear. The pain intensified until it disappeared and the telltale itch of knitting skin replaced it. 

“Souvenir?” Stiles asked, holding out the bloody silver shard to Derek who took the mage’s other hand as he was helped to his feet.

“I’m good.” Derek grunted.

“No, you’re exhausted, healing slower than you should. When’s the last time you ate? Slept?”

“We don’t have time for this Stiles.”

“Fine, but we can both agree this siege needs to end, and head on attacks aren’t working. That fortress is featured in legends - stories say it’s impenetrable.” 

“We know there’s a tunnel, what’s your point?”

The mage looked up at Derek with a lecherous smirk, “I’m up for some penetration, what about you?”

*****

As Derek approached he could tell this so called tunnel was one small ancient bolt hole, intended to help the vulnerable or valuable escape a fortress under siege. Kate had chosen to weaponize it.

The tunnel wasn’t much to look at, just a hole in a shallow hill which rose some twenty meters behind his forces most eastern flank. The opening was shrouded in shrubs and shadow, making it nearly impossible for a scout to spot. With the bushes trampled by Kate’s men, the opening was apparent now. 

“She’ll know we’re coming.” Stiles eyed the tunnel’s inky black entrance, his expression calculating.

Scott glanced to the battle field, “It’s a less defended entrance than the fortress walls.”

“That we can see from here.” Stiles reasoned. “She might have rigged the tunnel to collapse or something worse.”

“It’s a risk we’ll be taking. Proceed with caution” Derek grabbed a torch from one of Scott’s foot soldiers and plunged into the earth.

They were quiet as the went, the sounds of battle muffled overhead; the occasional catapult missile caused the ground to shake and loose dirt to dust the small band of soldiers. The tunnel ended at a wooden hatch and Derek stopped only for a second, making eye contact with Stiles in the torch light. A determined nod told him the younger man was ready, and with that Derek opened the hatch.

The inside of the fortress was controlled chaos. Men and women in Argent colors ran about putting out fires, racing up to the ramparts with more arrows or towards the keep with white linens for bandages. There were shockingly few Argent soldiers compared to what Derek had expected. A grim lineup of bodies laid side by side filling the courtyard. 

_ Without their uniforms they’d look just like my troops _ . Derek grimly entered the fray.

“Limit casualties!” He gave the command, “It’s Kate we’re after.”

Scott sent some men up the ramparts to incapacitate the archers. The rest joined the battle in the courtyard, disarming Argent fighters. 

“Derek, down!” Derek dropped at Stiles’ warning, the hairs on the back of Derek’s head were singed as a wall of fire pulsed above him. Derek scrambled back towards the mage and watched as sweat beaded down Stiles’ pinched face. Stiles’ arms were shaking with strain and his elbows bent, like he was trying to push something extremely heavy. His eyes were fixed on his flaming wall which Derek realized was holding back a cloud of green miasma. 

“She’s-” Stiles panted, “really… strong.” 

_ Kate _ . Derek realized. Kate was the one creating and controlling the toxic green vapor.

Stiles grunted, “She has to see us. Spell like this-urgh strong, she can see us.”

_ Meaning we can see her! _ Stiles’s message became clear and Derek scanned the walls, the balcony of the keep, and  _ There! _

“Keep’s Tower - South Window!” Derek called before running towards the Tower’s external staircase.

“Derek! Wait!” 

The heat dissipated behind him, and Derek heard the pounding of Stiles’ feet following him up the tower.

“What’s the plan?” Stiles panted as they rose, skipping every other step.

“Rip her throat out.”

“But her magic!”

“That’s why you’re here.” Derek’s pace didn’t slow as they approached the south window. 

“What part of  _ untrained _ don’t you-” Derek forced open the tower door, missing the rest of whatever Stiles was saying.

The room was dim, the sounds of battle muffled by thick stone walls. Unlit candles sat atop a thick wooden table in the center of the room. Books and manuscripts were strewn across the tabletop. Sitting serenely at the far end of the table, Kate smirked as they entered.

“Welcome Derek, it’s been too long darling.”

“It’s over Kate. Surrender here or die.”

“Death threats are so unbecoming Der-bear.”

“I mean it Kate.” Derek’s fangs dropped down, his claws extended.

“I think I’ll take a third option, thank you.” Her smile grew more cloying and her eyes danced with a cold madness. Around her fingers, a green cloud formed and pooled in her palm, spilling over and onto the floor. 

“I made this with you in mind, Sweetheart. It’s powdered foxglove paired with wolfsbane and infused with my Spark. Obeys my every will. Lovely, isn’t it? I wouldn’t recommend inhaling - quite deadly for humans and wolves but by the looks of your pitifully dead soldiers, you already knew that didn’t you.”

Derek snarled and lunged.

“DEREK!” Stiles called just as Kate extended her hand. The table’s candles all lit at once with green flames and green vapor condensing at Kate’s feet swirled into a massive verdant tidal wave, rising and ready to crash into Derek. Stiles rushed forward, placing himself between Derek and the cloud. Derek had less than a heartbeat to worry for the mage before Stiles flung his hands out, palms facing the green mist. A wave of heat swept over Derek as a flaming wall materialized in front of Stiles’ palms, just enough of a fiery barrier to keep the miasma from reaching them. 

Kate tutted, “You’ve brought your little untrained Spark again, how quaint.” Kate’s tone betrayed her own impatience. She shook herself and shrugged, “Sad little mageling with the same old tricks as last time. No matter, I will just have to show you what a real emissary is capable of!”

Kate brought her hand up again and the green smog swirled faster. Stiles grunted and his wall flickered, legs shaking as if he were holding up a heavy load.

“Stiles, she’s going to get away!” Derek watched in frustration as Kate leisurely gathered the manuscripts from the table, packed them into a satchel, and approached where they stood blocking the doorway.

“Do be a dear and  _ move _ .” Kate swatted her hand sideways and Stiles cried out as his wall was forced sharply backward by her green mist, pressing Stiles and Derek against the rough stone wall. The fire of Stiles’ wall was so close, Derek could feel the heat searing his skin.

“Stiles! Burn the smoke, do something! She’s getting away!” Derek roared, his clawed hands digging into Stiles’ shaking shoulders.

As she began down the steps, Kate turned and called back, “It’s been lovely Derek, and Mageling, if you’re here your baby beacon can’t be too far away. Maybe I’ll say hi before I go.” 

“STILES!” Derek nearly beat himself against the wall of flames. Stiles was sweating and gasping, as if the strain was nearly too much. Kate’s toxic green wave continued to swirl and press down on them. “I can’t let her get away again! Stiles!”

“Can’t.” the younger man grit out, “Poison.”

“Let down the wall. I’ll hold my breath!”

The young mage fell to his knees, “Not... wall… Cage.” He panted, his eyes closing and brow knit in focus.

It took a moment for the mage’s words to sink in. Derek looked around the room. Stiles’ flames now lined each wall of the room. Kate had unleashed a pool of poison at the heart of her own fortress. If the toxic gas was released… everyone in the fortress - Argent and Allied - would die.

Kate truly was a monster.

Stiles was saving them all.

“Can’t… Hold it!” Stiles’ voice was pitched and pained. 

Derek reached down and pulled Stiles to his feet. He could feel the mage’s muscles straining beneath his hands. 

“Don’t hold it then. Get rid of it, burn it up.”

Stiles’ eyes opened, his expression desperate and assessing. He nodded and muttered, “Hold onto your eyebrows.”

A moment later, the world was hidden behind blinding red and green flames.

*****

Derek surveyed the faces of the Argent prisoners. Kate wasn’t among them.

“Derek!” Scott ran up, a couple of visible cuts appeared to be in the process of healing, but Derek didn’t see any wounds he should worry about. 

“Have the prisoners said anything?”

Scott paused to glance at the shambling fort around them, “They haven't said much. A handful asked for food or a medic. By the looks of their fortress, they were never outfitted for a long siege. Even the prideful ones didn’t turn down a meal. Hunger would have beaten them soon if we hadn’t.”

Derek nodded grimly. This wasn’t the first poorly managed Argent fortress they had taken, just the first Kate was personally in charge of.

“Kate?” Derek hated how weak his voice sounded when he asked.

Scott sighed and shook his head. “I followed her with a small party about 100 meters but her magic…we couldn’t- I called the men off. She escaped. I’m sorry Derek.”

Scott shifted nervously, eyeing Derek for his response. 

Derek clapped a hand onto his Second’s shoulder and spoke as if to convince himself, “We’ll be better prepared for her next time.” 

Scott smiled and nodded. A beat later he asked, “Stiles?”

“I carried him to the medic’s tent. He’s fine Scott,” Derek squeezed Scott’s shoulder gently, “just worn out from fighting Kate.” 

Derek tried not to think about Stiles, limp and delirious in his arms as he had descended the tower stairs some two hours ago. A healer had directed Derek to a cot where he placed Stiles whose fingers still flickered with the occasional magical flame.

_ Hyperarousal  _ the healer had called it,  _ he’s exhausted but his mind can’t let go of the possible threat. _ The healer had given Stiles a draught to help him sleep.

The afternoon stretched on. Derek walked the battlefield, checking in on his battered soldiers, grieving alongside them for lost friends, and helping free a catapult from a pit of mud trapping it’s wheels. As night fell and his troops made camp a kilometer from the battle field, Derek finally let the weight of exhaustion drag him to his own tent. 

Sleep, however, wouldn’t come. The echoes of the battle rattled around in his head. The stench of war clung to his skin. The image of the foot soldier torn in half by a catapult missile was imprinted on the inside of his eyelids alongside a thousand other horrors Derek knew he would never forget. Derek had led so many good people to their deaths - in this battle and others - their trusting eyes haunted him from the shadows.

Derek wiped sweat from his forehead and rose unsteadily, leaving his stifling tent and breathing in the night’s cool air. His feet led him on an aimless route between tents and extinguished cookfires until Derek found himself back on the torn earth of the battlefield.

A gibbous moon lit the open field which lay before the ancient fortress. Like a pale willowy specter, one silhouette stood ahead of Derek. Stiles hunched with a blanket wrapped tightly around him as he hovered by the edge of the mass grave the soldiers had dug for the fallen. Derek had ordered only one pit; the Hale and Argent dead had been buried side by side. 

“How many?” Stiles whispered, as if worried he would wake the dead buried before him. “How many died?”

“We don’t have a clear count yet.”

“Bullshit. How many, Derek?” Something in Stiles’ eyes gave Derek pause. They were dark in the moonlight but crackled with some sort of ethereal energy.

_ Scent like Lightning _ .

“We lost 239 soldiers. Best I can tell, Argents lost around 112. May they all be Judged fairly.”

Stiles nodded soberly. 

“May they be Judged fairly,” he repeated softly before asking, “Scott and the others?”

“My Seconds are all fine.”

Stiles turned his gaze back towards the grave. “Wounded?”

“The wolves are all healed up already. Only around 50 humans seriously wounded, the rest of the wounded have superficial injuries.”

“And the Argents?”

“There were 42 left alive when we came through the tunnel. They’ve been treated for wounds and fed.”

“Prisoners? That's new.” Stiles eyed Derek curiously.

Derek lowered himself to sit at the edge of the grave, the cool wet of the grass soaking through is britches. 

“I was just tired Stiles. Tired of all the death.”

Stiles nodded and sat beside Derek, pressing his hand into the soil, “It was good of you, burying the dead all together. The ley lines here are beginning to heal.”

“Without a uniform, you’d never know which side they’d died for.” Derek’s voice was a whisper.

“They shouldn’t of died at all.” Stiles’ voice was hard and hateful, so unlike the young man, Derek paused.

“Stiles?”

“Twice now Derek! Twice I let that Bitch go! And now more people are going to die all because I-”

“Stiles Stop.” Derek reached a hand out to Stiles’ shoulder, but the younger man shrugged him off.

“I couldn’t stop her six months ago when she tried to kill you and I couldn’t do anything today! She’s going to keep sewing hatred and she’ll set up a new fortress with poor saps that we’ll have to kill and it’s all. My. Fault!” A harsh choking sob ripped itself form Stiles’ shaking form. Derek pulled the young mage into his arms and held his crying comrade close. 

“You can’t blame yourself Stiles. You saved my life today and back at the palace. The death tolls would so much higher if you hadn’t stopped her poison.”

“If I was stronger-”

“I still would have acted rashly and put you in a bad position. You asked me for a plan and I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry Stiles.”

Derek let his apology hang between them as he held Stiles close enough to feel the mage’s heartbeat harmonizing with his own.

“If I leave to train… I could actually stand a chance against her - I could make larger shields, heal people! Without emissary training… Kate’s right. I’m no match for her.”

“You’re enough Stiles. You’ve saved my life and others many times with what you know. You're needed here.”  _ I need you here _ Derek left unsaid.

Stiles began to pull away and Derek lamented the loss of the mage’s warmth.

Derek’s mind scrambled to make some sort of promise, something to convince Stiles…  _ Convince Stiles to what? _ Derek wasn’t sure. 

The words he found were less than inspiring, “Next time… We’ll have a strategy. We’ll catch her unawares and we’ll stop her for good.”

“Whatever you say, Sourwolf.” Stiles said around a yawn. The mage stood and held out a hand to help Derek up for the second time that day. 

As Derek turned to leave, Stiles’ hand fisted in his sleeve. “Wait,” he whispered.

Derek turned and looked at the younger man.

“I feel… I feel like I can do something for them.” Stiles indicated the grave with a tip of his head. “But… I need help.”

“What do you need?”

Stiles let go of Derek’s sleeve and took the Prince’s hand instead. Derek couldn’t help but notice how perfectly their fingers laced together.

Sitles pulled them back down to the ground and showed Derek how to press his hands into the soil, fingers splayed with Stiles’ left hand placed gently on top of Derek’s right.

“Close your eyes, I’ll guide us.”

Derek did as he was directed and waited, feeling nothing for long minutes.

Then there was unnatural warmth from Stiles’ left hand and a bright line formed in Derek’s mind’s eye, like a river of flowing bright white light.

The river arched, twisted, swelled, and thinned; a sense of immense natural power overwhelmed Derek. Stiles clutched Derek’s hand, grounding him as a thread of light left the river and approached them. In a vision behind Derek’s eyes, Stiles glowed as he reached out his free hand which was coated in red flame and crackling blue sparks. The thread wrapped around Stiles’ pointer finger and Derek immediately felt as though his own body had been hit by lightning. Energy consumed them and Derek felt his wolf surface, curious and awed by the splinter of the ley line which was now wrapping around Stiles’ wrist. The mage’s eyes were white with energy in Derek’s vision and he knew his own would be gleaming red with his Wolf. Stiles raised his wrist to his lips, the thread of pure magic shivering as he whispered words Derek could not make out.

The moment passed and the thread unwound. Magic drained from Derek’s form and he gaped as, in his mind’s eye, the thread became an incredibly thin sheet which spread wide across the battlefield and wrapped itself around the final resting place of the dead.

Stiles shuddered beside Derek and collapsed into the mud just as the vision faded from Derek’s eyes and he blinked them open. 

“Stiles?” Derek croaked, noting that the moon had nearly set and the early streaks of sunrise were coloring the clouds on the eastern horizon. What had felt like minutes must have taken hours.

“Stiles?” Derek wet his lips and asked again, muscles aching as he pulled the listless young man gently into his arms.

“This place will heal now, better than it was before.” Stiles murmured, a loose smile on his lips.

“You just- We just-”

“Tapped directly into the source of magic to sanctify a battlefield. Yup. People will lose the will to fight here for the next thousand or so years. Not even a petty disagreement.”

“But… how?”

“351 people died here in the last four days of fighting. Buried in a mass grave, they were sacrifices without purpose. We just gave them purpose.”

Derek let the tears he'd been holding on for days fall and he clutched the listless mage tighter. He wasn’t sure why exactly he was crying. Perhaps he grieved for the dead, for the loss of innocence, for the senselessness of war. Perhaps he cried in frustration at losing Kate again, at how this war would continue on to other senseless battles. None of these reasons felt quite right however. A part of Derek knew he cried because he’d become a part of something bigger than even a Prince. He’d worked a deep magic with Stiles and created something beautiful, something clean and pure, where blood still stained the earth. 

A part of Derek felt cleaner too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and provide feedback as you are able. Your words help me keep interested in projects like these as a writer ~ Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year into the war and Derek is feeling the strain of leadership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter with some world building shoved in your face... I'm working on smoother ways to get the exposition in. I'm always up for some feedback if you have any!
> 
> Trigger Warning for mentions of kidnapping.

Roughly Six Months Later

_ This was all Laura's fault. _ Derek grumbled as he walked from campfire to campfire. He never stayed long among any particular group of soldiers, just a few minutes to compliment their gamey stew or listen in on discussion. A handful of times he even answered a question when asked. It was Laura’s idea that he should ‘mingle’ and Mother made it an order. Derek didn't mind the men and women in his battalion, quite the opposite - he adored them. When it came to socializing though, Derek always felt so wrongfooted. Careful gazes from hardened soldiers made him feel every bit the ‘sourwolf’ as Stiles liked to call him.

“That’s not how it happened!”  _ Speak of the devil _ . Stiles’ mock frustration came from a large campfire to Derek’s right. 

“And then he shoved all six pies under his shirt!” Scott exclaimed, undoubtedly continuing his story for the large gathering of soldiers around them.

“I’m telling you that is not how things went down!” Stiles laughed openly, seated beside Scott. The firelight danced in Stiles’ eyes and Derek couldn't help being reminded of the magical Spark burning within the younger man.

Erica poked Stiles’ shoulder from where she sat on Stiles’ other side, “Then tell us what  _ really _ happened.” 

Stiles sat up straighter and extended his hands dramatically. “It was all in self defense you see. The Hill’s baker, Meredith, she’s this cooky banshee. I knew if I got caught there’d be hell to pay!”

“As I remember you did get caught.” Scott grinned.

“Six pies beneath the shirt are a  _ little  _ hard to miss.” Erica jibed.

“What happened when the banshee caught you?” a soldier off in the shadows asked.

Stiles leaned in and spoke in a low conspiring tone that had every spectator inching closer, “She saw me and shrieked like only a banshee can. I moved to cover my ears before they bled. All those pies came tumbling out from under my shirt and onto the floor!” all gathered laughed and Stiles’ smile grew. 

“I could see murder in her eyes and panicked. But before I could run she used my True Name to hold me in place.”

“True Name? I thought those were a myth.” A different voice in the crowd called out.

Stiles turned towards the speaker and nodded, “I thought so too until that very moment. The name written on your soul is very real and extremely powerful. Only a banshee can hear the true names of others. Usually they are sworn to secrecy by their order and will never reveal a true name or use that knowledge to control someone for their own gain but Meredith is… how would you describe her Scott?”

“Vindictive? Definitely vengeful.” Scott gazed thoughtfully into the fire as if he could see the woman in question.

“Vengeful works. She used my True Name and ordered me to stay put while she got my father. There was no way I was going to get caught red handed and dragged before the Beacon shaming my family name for generations to come!”

Erica snorted loudly. Dramatically she intoned, “And henceforth all Stilinskis shall curse your name!”

“The fear was legitimate, you’ve met Scott’s mom. Her ‘I’m disappointed in you’ face is worse than a death sentence!”

“How’d you get away?” Another soldier asked from just beyond where the campfire illuminated.

“I did the only thing one can do when being controlled with their True Name.” Stiles paused for dramatic effect before revealing, “I changed it.”

“Impossible!” came a shout to Derek’s left.

“Not quite.” Stiles sat up straight again and adopted a teaching tone. “The name of one’s soul - commonly referred to as a True Name - is very hard to change since doing so requires the soul to be altered on a fundamental level. In most cases, a change that deep can only be triggered by intense events that change how we see ourselves like committing murder or falling in love. If you’re desperate enough though, and willing to see yourself differently, you can change your own True Name.”

Stiles let his lecture hang in the air until Erica pipped in to ask the question they were all wondering, “What did you change your name to?”

“Should I tell you?” Stiles asked evasively, “A True Name is a very personal thing, you know.”

The crowd cheered and egged the young mage on. Stiles grinned from ear to ear and held up his hand for silence. Derek found he couldn’t look away. Stiles was in his element, working the crowd like a sculptor with wet clay. His joy infectious and Derek for a second idly pondered ordering everyone away so he might have the mage to himself.

It wasn’t until everyone was focused entirely on him that Stiles said seriously, “‘Scared Shitless’. I even left a turd right there next to the pies for authenticity!” 

The crowd roared with laughter and calls of “Bull shit!” came from some less humorous spectators. Derek rolled his eyes and began to walk towards the command tent.

Erica wiped away a tear as she struggled to get her own laughter under control, “So your soul is named ‘Scared Shitless’?”

“Naw,” Stiles cracked his knuckles and leaned back a bit to stretch, “As soon as I knew I was home free I let my original name slip back into place.”

The laughter began to fade the further Derek got, yet the warmth of the fire and camaraderie stayed with him during the cold uphill trek to the command tent. 

Stiles had been right in his assessment that bringing Scott on as a Second would help strengthen their patchwork army. The mage had neglected to include how he himself would contribute to boosting morale, proposing brilliant strategies, and assisting the royal mages in checking the wards around their encampment daily. Stiles Stilinski was an invaluable asset who seemed completely unaware of his own worth. Derek’s only complaint was how little he actually got to see of Stiles - not that he would care to admit it.

Derek reached the command tent which he found was comfortably quiet. Only the soft sounds of the forest at night and occasional laughter floated in the air. Times like this made it easy to forget they'd been at war for nearly a year.

Lighting a candle, Derek read through commander reports and sent out codified orders regarding the next day’s movements. He was partway through a letter to the Queen when he heard the canvas of the tent rustling.

“Why the long face Sourwolf?” Derek turned to see Stiles poking his head in between tent flaps.

“What do you want Stiles?” Derek grit out, rubbing his sore neck with an ink stained hand.

“I saw you at the campfire. Why didn’t you stay?”

Derek gestured to the stack of papers beside him, “There’s work to be done. An army doesn’t lead itself.” 

“And how’s that going?” Stiles moved around the tent using two fingers to direct his magic in lighting more candles. Some flared up violently, licking the mages fingers before he could pull them back, while others took some convincing, flickering once or twice before deciding to light. “The whole leading an army thing?”

Standing to stretch, Derek looked over at Stiles. “You already know the answer.”

“Yeah,” Stiles picked up a half drunk mug of tea Derek had forgotten and set his glowing hands against the ceramic sides until steam rose lazily from within. “But it sounds better in your voice, all rough and growly.” Stiles winked as he blew on the tea before taking a cautious sip.

“You want to hear how we’re losing more battles than we’re winning?” Derek sighed frustrated and took the tea from Stiles’ hands, their hands brushing for less than a second and yet Derek suddenly felt warmer in a way that had nothing to do with Stiles’ magic. Ignoring the sensation, he strode over to the map table. 

“Their attacks are brief and unanticipated. Our supply lines keep getting raided or cut off and despite the early ground we gained, our progress has slowed close to a standstill.”

“But…?” Stiles prompted.

“But nothing Stiles! The few battles we were winning turned on us and I called for a retreat. Laura wrote that Lord Lahey is starting talks to have me removed. As it is, I almost agree with him! I shouldn’t be in command if I don’t have the guts to stick it out.”

“You care for your soldiers. That’s not something King Gerard, Crazy Bitch Kate, or that fucking coward Lahey can say. No offense to Isaac but his dad’s an ass!” Stiles took a deep breath and looked Derek straight in the eyes, “You started this campaign with troops who didn’t know you. Now they respect you and know you’re in it for the long haul. They trust that you value their lives over a fast and bloody victory.”

“We can’t win a war by running away.”

Stiles took a seat in Derek’s chair and propped his feet up on the map table. “No, but I prefer to see it as pacing ourselves, saving our energy and resources. This war was always going to be a marathon. Our victory lies in outlasting. Tortoise and the Hare style for the win.” Stiles punched the air in mock celebration.

“That doesn’t help me here Stiles. Again, how can we outlast Gerard if he’s the one winning all the battles?”

“Is he though,” Stiles stood and moved to stand beside Derek. He pulled one map towards them, “You say we’ve been losing battles, but I think you’re missing the forest for the trees. We’ve indisputably won three out of the four large scale confrontations.” With his finger, Stiles circles the sites of battles won and then pointed to the many red x’s marking battles lost. 

“Most of these were small surprise attacks without casualties. All were completely unpredictable and unavoidable. Each time you had us hold our ground and put up wards - that’s not retreating Derek, that’s just smart. You’ve got General Kali’s rangers out hunting these little attack forces and knowing that woman, they won’t be a problem by the end of the week. You have Boyd and I investigating camp for argent spies, and we’ll stop any possible leaks. You did order a retreat in one battle so far,  _ one _ . In that case, the geography worked against us. We didn’t have the high ground and would have been picked off trying to cross that river. It’s true that no war is free from casualties but you realized our death toll would have been catastrophic had we continued fighting. A retreat there was strategic,  _ not  _ cowardly.”

Derek breathed deeply and leaned unconsciously into Stiles’ space. A moment later he tiredly straightened and asked, “What do you want Stiles?” 

“Why do you assume-” Derek’s raised eyebrow caused Stiles to cut off, “Fine. For the record, I did come to check on you in your fortress of solitude, but I also wanted your opinion.”

“On?”

“Well, it has to do with the possible Argent spy situation… but that’s maybe not the place to start…”

“Just say it Stiles.”

“Do you… You know the night of the ball, when the Crazy Bitch tried to kill us…”

“I remember Stiles, what about it?”

“She said something to me while you were, ya know…” Stiles made a face with his tongue sticking out.

“Very mature. What did she say?” Derek hid his discomfort by focusing on rolling up maps.

“She mentioned Scott would be their - meaning the Argent’s - puppet.”

“There’s no way. Scott’s not a spy and he’s as loyal as they come.”

“That’s also what she said.” Stiles’ tone was cold, causing Derek to look up. Derek hated the cruel glint in the emissary ’s eyes. 

“You asked me to look into a possible mole, an Argent spy that’s been under our noses for months, a reason Kate’s little death bands always know our supply routes, a reason she’s always one step ahead, always slipping through our fingers.” Stiles’ gaze slide away from Derek’s

“And you think your best friend, my trusted Second - who we both agree is painfully loyal - is an Argent mole?”

Stiles bit his lip, conflicted before blurting out, “Ever since the battle at the fort, a battle where  _ Scott  _ was in charge of catching Kate after the green-mist-tower-fiasco, the ambushes always happen on days following when Scott oversees evening watch. Every one of them. I… Derek, I  _ quadruple _ checked.”

Derek feels suddenly cold, “Scott’s been manipulating the watch schedule to steal documents from commander’s tents. Stiles, this is treason we’re talking about...”

Stiles shook his head angrily, “You said it yourself, Scott is as loyal as they come!” 

The younger man paused to breathe before saying in a near whisper, “I think Kate knows his True Name.”

If the topic weren’t so serious, Derek would have scoffed.

“I thought that was just part of your story.”

Stiles shook his head, “No, what I told around the campfire was a true story with some comedic embellishments. True Names are real and if Kate knows Scott's- if she used it on him that night at the fort-” Derek could hear Stiles’ heart racing and his breaths becoming shallow. The candle flames danced wildly, reaching uncomfortably close to the tent canvas.

“Stiles!” Derek barked to get the younger man's attention, “Slowdown, what makes you so sure she knows his True Name?”

Stiles’ shoulders sagged and he took measured even breaths struggling to calm himself. “It was her choice of words back at the palace, something about Scott ‘making a true name for himself’ while working for them. And then at the fort, she said she’d try and find him. That kind of wording isn’t accidental. Not when Kate’s involved.”

Derek clenched his fist, keeping it by his side when he longed to place a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “Okay, let’s say she did have Scott’s True Name. Wouldn’t Scott tell us, he’s got to know-”

Stiles shook his head fiercey, “She could just tell him to forget. Scott probably has no idea. Gods this will crush him!”

Derek growled at the thought of Scott’s features in a broken expression.

“How is this even possible?! How’d she get it?” Derek could feel his claws pressing into the flesh of his hands.

“That Banshee in the story we told? Meredith? She was never very stable and Beacon Melissa had her sent to a monastery where she could hopefully find some peace of mind. I wrote my father a while back. His reply came today. It took him months to trackdown her last known whereabouts. Turns out Meredith has been missing for over two years.”

“You think the Argents have her.”

Stiles nodded, “And with her, all the True Names of those from the Hill.”

“You all could just change your True Names, right? Like you did in the story.”

“That was the part I made up for comedy. Changing a True Name means changing the soul. That’s not… Beyond a literally soul-crushing tragedy, I’m not sure how to accomplish that.”

Derek was about to reply when a deep voice cut in, requesting entry to the command tent. Derek looked to Stiles who nodded his consent and Derek had a second to wonder when he started to ask Stiles’ permission before responding. 

“Come in.”

Boyd entered the tent quickly and bowed to Derek, eyeing Stiles.

“Alpha Derek, would you mind if we spoke privately?”

Stiles made to leave and Derek held up his hand to stop the mage. “Stiles is a good listener, and he’s pointed in his advice. I recommend he stay, however if you are uncomfortable…”

Boyd looked at Stiles warily for a beat then turned to Derek, “I came to you first, I swear, I’ve spoken to no one.” the words came out in an uncharacteristic rush.

“Boyd, it's alright, tell us what happened.” Derek’s voice was even though it barely held back the worry he had for his Second.

“An Argent. He materialized out of the bloody woods while I was on patrol. He… They have my family Derek. My entire village is being held hostage and the Argents will kill everyone if I don’t-” Boyd cut off and hung his head in shame.

“If you don’t… what?” Stiles prompted gently.

“They want plans, supply routes, troop numbers and movements, everything. They wanted me to raid this tent and give them everything.”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles muttered under his breath, “Derek, do you think that’s how they’ve been planning the guerrilla attacks? There’s no mole, they’ve just been blackmailing our men.  _ Shit _ .”

Derek felt his stomach drop at the revelation. He turned to Boyd and focused on the situation at hand, “You know as well as I do that we can’t split our forces. Moving south to your village while the Argents are northwest is a clear detour we can’t afford.” He clapped his hand to the back of Boyd’s neck. “We’re still making progress Boyd. If we keep beating the Argent’s back we’ll win the war and your family will never have to fear Argents again.”

“I understand that Derek, but they said I had twenty-four hours or everyone dies. He wasn’t lying Derek, his heartbeat was steady.” Boyd sounded understandably anguished.

Derek let his hand fall away and cursed the Argents for the millionth time in the confines of his mind. 

“Boyd,” he started, hating himself for the hard spot he was in, “I hope you can understand this, but I can’t let you take documents to pay a ransom to our enemy and I can’t split my forces. We’ll have to hope your village can hold out long enough for us to win the war. I’m sorry.” And Derek was. He wished there was another way, but fake documents would take too long to forge not mention parchment was limited with supply caravans being raided. His wolf howled in grief at having failed his Third-turned Beta.

Boyd’s eyes grew misty and he gave an aborted nod, “Yes Sir. I understand.” Boyd made a quick retreat, disappearing through the tent flap and into the night.

Stiles’ judgement broke the silence half a beat later, “That was cold Derek. I can't believe you're just gonna do nothing.”

“You’re a strategist Stiles. You know the value of scarcely 40 lives can’t be prioritized over the existence of the twenty holdings and three kingdoms that placed their fates in my hands. It is cold, but my hands are tied.” Derek felt exhaustion wearing on him.

“That’s a load of horse shit.” Stiles spat back.

“No war is free from casualties.” Derek whispered.

“Yeah, and ‘We can’t win a war by running away.’ Leaving innocents to die by Argent blades  _ is  _ cowardly.”

Derek flinched at the snap of the tent flap closing behind Stiles. All the candles spontaneously went out, leaving Derek alone in the dark with his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no Stiles... what are you going to do? 
> 
> (Anyone catch the Superman reference? Cause ya'know... Tyler Hoechlin was Superman on the CW...)
> 
> Comments, kudos, and feedback are always valued, loved, appreciated, and cherished! ~Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles faces the consequences of his actions.

Alicia had eyes like Scott’s: big and brown and trusting. She looked up at Stiles like he held all the answers when all he really held was her hand. The five-year-old had scarcely let go during their entire two day journey to the Hale encampment. Stiles didn’t mind. She needed the comfort and if Stiles was being entirely honest, he did too.

They approached the encampment as the morning fog was just beginning to burn off, a small band of thirty-seven survivors plus Stiles. There was no great welcome awaiting them, only weary faces and a few teary eyes. 

Stiles reached out and caught the coat-sleeve of an infantryman guarding the encampment’s west edge, “I need to find the Prince Commander.” The man looked bewildered, scared even when he recognized Stiles and gestured toward the open space below the command tent.

“The Prince is holding a public questioning.” The man stammered out and shook Stiles from his sleeve, dashing away with a panicked backward glance.

Sighing, Stiles looked down at Alicia and bent to scoop the girl up, setting her on his hip. “This might get ugly sweetheart. I promise you though, you’ll be safe.”

She nodded, “You’ll save us like before.” Her unwavering confidence was naive but the purity of her smile encouraging.

Stiles and the villagers made their way to the gathering space set in front of the command tent. Even from a distance, Stiles could make out Derek’s tall frame.

The Prince’s voice carried easily across the open field, “Soldier, you are expected to answer truthfully.”

A different yet familiar gentle baritone came clearly despite the distance, “I have never lied to you my Prince. I stole no documents and committed no treason.” 

Derek’s brow furrowed in frustration and he took a breath to respond.

“I stole the documents. I’m the one who committed treason.” Stiles interrupted, all faces turned to look at him. Passing Alicia to a middle aged woman off to his right, Stiles strode forward until he stood between Derek and a kneeling Boyd. Stiles fell to his knees before the prince.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice was soft, carrying no further than the two of them. “What have you done?”

“What needed to be done.” Stiles looked Derek in his beautiful eyes briefly, not bearing to see the surprise and hurt blooming within. He projected his voice and prayed it didn't waver, “I stole the maps and a copy of command orders to trade them as ransom for the people of Fernridge village. I handed these documents to Argent forces and recognize my actions as treason. I accept whatever sentence you see fit Prince Commander.”

“Stiles…” The pain in Derek’s tone caused Stiles to flinch. “The penalty for treason is the death sentence.”

“NO!” Scott’s voice rang out as the shifter pushed through the crowd. “This is a mistake! It has to be!” Ever the optimist, Scott looked at Stiles with such hope it made Stiles’ stomach clench painfully. “Let’s hear him out, this is all a big misunderstanding, right?”

Derek looked from Scott to Stiles and nodded, “Explain.”

Stiles forced himself to stare Derek in the eyes, “I snuck into the command tent during the witching hour and stole the documents the Argent forces had required as ransom for the safety of Fernridge village. I used my magic to incapacitate anyone on watch and left this encampment to meet with a contact for the Argents with whom I made the exchange.”

“You admit to stealing military documents?” Derek’s tone was emotionless but Stiles could see the reality of his betrayal sinking in. 

“I do.”

“And you admit to knowingly and willingly delivering these documents to our enemies?”

“I do.”

“Do you agree that under your own volition you placed every one of your fellow soldiers at risk by giving away our positions, movements, and supply routes.”

Stiles paused and swallowed before answering, his voice breaking, “I do.”

“Stiles no.” Scott’s voice reached Stiles as a raspy whisper. Stiles didn’t have to look to know Scott was crying, heartbroken.

Derek stood straighter, every bit the image of a Prince Commander and Stiles held still under his glare. “What role did Second Commander Vernon Boyd play in this act of treason?”

“Beyond bringing the plight of these villagers to my attention, Second Commander Boyd had no part in this.” 

Derek’s shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Stiles figured it was better to lose one friend than two. The questioning continued, “Did you have any accomplices?”

Stiles shook his head, “I acted alone.” Any shifter present could hear the truth in his heartbeat.

Scott’s ceaseless pleading of ‘no no no’ was distracting, but Stiles kept his focus on Derek. If his world shrunk to just Derek, the rest was manageable. Or maybe it wasn't. His eyes burned as he held back tears.

“Can you explain why you chose to commit treason?”

“I did it to save lives. To protect our most vulnerable from the Argents.”

Derek rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Mieczyslaw Stilinski, servant to the Beacon of the Hill, you have confessed to the crime of treason, the penalty for which - in old laws and new, in all lands allied with Hale - is death.”

Scott’s mournful howl shattered the quiet air. In an instant Scott shifted and flung himself at Derek only to be restrained by both Erica and Isaac. His eyes glowed golden with flickers of red and he roared fiercely, all control lost. Stiles could not hold back tears that spilled down his cheeks.

“Erica. Isaac. Get him out of here.” To any spectator, Derek appeared as calm as ever but Stiles knew the Prince better than that. Derek’s control was fraying as well.

“While your crimes are heinous and treason unforgivable, I take into account the altruistic intention behind your actions. Instead of death, I, Prince Derek Hale, Prince Commander of the Allied Hale forces sentence you to live in exile. You shall never return to our lands upon pain of death. You have one hour to collect your belongings and leave camp. You have until nightfall to be across our southernmost border.” Derek paused and stared with deadened eyes down at Stiles, “Do you have any parting words?”

Stiles swallowed past the lump in his throat; he couldn't breakdown yet. 

“I ask only that you treat the villagers of Fernridge fairly as they are but victims in all this. And that…” Stiles struggled to find the right words, “Look after my brother, please.” He pleaded.

Derek nodded sharply and strode away, calling orders out for soldiers to find space and supplies for the weary villagers. Stiles watched as the Prince helped Boyd stand and together they walked off towards where Scott could still be heard howling at the edge of camp. His best friend - no, his  _ brother  _ was in good hands. 

Stiles stood shakily only to be bowled into by Alicia. “I don’t like the mean man!” She exclaimed and Stiles held her close briefly before letting her go.

“He’s a good man who I put in a very hard spot. You mind him and respect him while I’m gone, alright?. He will treat you fairly.” Alicia pouted, her dark skin flushed and her eyes burgeoned with tears she refused to let fall. Affection swelled in Stiles for the small brave girl but where he was going there was no place for her. Stiles brought the little girl back towards the Fernridge refugees and left her in capable hands.

The crowd parted as he walked to his tent, head held high. A handful of soldiers cursed him - one particularly belligerent soldier spat on him - but the rest seemed frozen, shocked into silence. Stiles could care less. The world had lost all color. His heart ached.

He had few possessions and was riding out of the encampment ten minutes later.  _ Why does banishment feel like I’m running away?  _ The chilled wind stole tears from his eyes as Stiles left a mess behind him.

*****

A firm grip wrapped around the crux of Derek’s arm and he shifted suddenly, barely restraining himself from ripping Boyd’s throat out. Boyd looked stoic in the face of Derek’s fangs and gleaming red eyes; a sad pull at the corner of his lips made clear his hidden feelings.

“Derek, I had no idea Stiles would-”

“The reckless idiot!” Derek roared, pulling himself from Boyd’s grasp. “Damned bleeding heart with his disregard for- for everything! How dare he talk about the most vulnerable, protecting people, about strategy when he does nothing but put our lives at greater risk - we'll lose the war faster, all villages under Hale protection will meet the same fate Fernridge was facing. Damn it Stiles!”

Boyd’s eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, his shoulders shaking slightly. In an instant, Derek forced himself to reign his anger in.

“Boyd, your village… I’m sorry, I...I don’t blame you.”

“But-”

“No.” The Prince Commander’s tone was firm. “Stiles made his own decisions. You made the right choice in coming to me. I-” a wave of guilt crashed over Derek, “I am sorry, for not even trying to save your family. I… dammit! I accusing you of fucking treason!”

“You did what you had to Derek. Stiles was missing, the documents were gone. You needed answers and…” 

“And?”

Boyd glanced up at Derek, a broken smile on his lips, “I was about to say, ‘who could have guessed it had been Stiles all along,’ but it seems pretty obvious now.”

Derek nodded slowly, his shoulders drooping. “I should have-... If I’d only…”

A warm hand rested on Derek’s shoulder, “It’s as you told me, Stiles made his own decisions. You can’t hold yourself responsible for him.”

Smiling sadly at his Second, Derek shook his head, “That’s where you’re wrong. I'm Prince Commander; I’m responsible for all of you. That includes foolhardy untrained mages with more heroic bullshit than sense.”

A pained howl cut through the encampment and Derek found himself moving swiftly again.

“What will you do about Scott?” Boyd moved in step beside Derek.

“He just lost his best and oldest friend. He’ll have the space he needs.”

Boyd kept his thoughts on that matter to himself as they moved with quiet haste to where they could see Isaac and Erica restraining a half-shifted Scott.

Scott made to claw Erica’s face and Boyd tensed, poised leap forward as Erica dodged. Derek extended his arm and placed a firm hand on Boyd’s chest. Briefly, Derek gripped the fabric of Boyd’s tunic, his eyes fixed on Scott before he let go with a gentle push and ordered, “Stand off to the side. Only intervene if it he’s killing me.”

“Sir…”

“You have your orders.” Derek took a few steps and planted his feet wide. Taking a deep breath, Derek called, “Your friend betrayed you Scott”.

Scott’s head turned sharply, his golden eyes boring into Derek.

Unfazed, Derek continued, “Stiles betrayed you. He betrayed me. He committed treason against your home and mine.”

Scott snarled fiercely and wrenched himself from Isaac and Erica’s grips. The teen wolf stood tense, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“He broke your trust. He broke the law… And now I have too.” Derek’s voice softened and Scott’s growling cut off, his attention intent on Derek. Now that he was closer, Derek could make out the tear tracks staining Scott’s face.

Derek refused to let his voice break as he said in a whisper, “I didn’t kill him Scott. I couldn’t.” Taking a few steps towards his Beta, Derek kept his body language unaggressive. “I couldn’t because… because...He’s Stiles.” Derek cut off as if those two words could explain everything, and maybe they could.

Scott held still as Derek wrapped strong arms around him and pulled him close. “Stiles asked me to look after his brother. Do you think you can help me with that?”

Scott’s knees gave out and the teen let loose a heart wrenching sob as he shifted back to being fully human. Derek brought them slowly to the ground. He held his Beta tightly and hid his own tears in the crook of Scott’s neck as his other Seconds joined them.

*****

Nursing a pint of mead, Stiles waited in heavy silence as the sounds of the inn swelled and crashed around him. 

Just as the sun was disappearing beneath the horizon, the hoof falls and tack of a carriage arriving had inn staff racing outside. In strode Lady Lydia Martin, eyeing the interior with distaste. Within seconds she spotted Stiles’ hiding spot in at a back-corner table bathed in shadow. He rose slowly from his chair to greet her.

“Thank you for coming, my Lady.” He muttered softly, dipping his head.

“Oh Stiles,” She gasped as she got a good look at him, a dainty hand covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” 

Stiles shrugged listlessly and pulled her chair out for her before seating himself once more while asking, “Did it work?”

“More than you know.”

“Lydia, just tell me plainly.” Stiles bit out shortly, glaring into his mug. Lydia didn’t deserve his foul mood but he hoped she would forgive him based on the circumstances.

Lydia pursed her lips at his tone yet she still took pity on him, “I checked right after you left. Scott’s True Name has changed.” Stiles breathed a sigh of relief.

“How was he? When I was… when I left he was...”

“Scott was understandably upset, but from what I could see he had his wolf back under control. Isaac was staying close to him all day.”

“He won’t be alone.” Stiles’ lip quirked up at the edge in a doleful smile. Lydia nodded sympathetically. 

A server arrived with a plate and tankard for her. Picking at her shepherd's pie, Lydia caught Stiles’ eyes, “Stiles, It wasn’t only Scott whose name changed.” She paused and Stiles felt his heart rate begin to climb. 

“Derek’s name changed as well.” She added and Stiles’ eyes widened.  _ Derek? Really? _ Stiles’ act of treason was enough to alter the Prince’s  _ soul _ ?

“And that’s not all,” Lydia’s posture and tone were professional, but she held the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “ _ Your _ name Stiles, that changed too.”

Stiles scoffed, “What is it now? Backstabber? Turncoat?” His attempt at a self deprecating laugh failed, sounding more like a sob.

“ _ Loyal Betrayer _ .” Lydia said softly, a single perfect tear falling until she brushed it away.

Stiles nodded and rubbed his stinging eyes. “Good. That’s good.” He took a shaky breath, “The plan worked and Scott’s safe.” Stiles took a long pull from his mug. 

“Why now? Kate threatened Scott almost a year ago. If she hasn’t made a move yet-”

“That you know of.” Stiles cut her off. “And now they threatened Boyd, Lydia. Boyd. She’s not just blackmailing foot soldiers now, she’s targeting Second Commanders, one of which happens to be Scott.”

“And Fernridge?”

“An opportunity. Those people didn’t need to die and I needed a catastrophe to change Scott’s name. Two birds, one poorly planned act of treason.”

Lydia watched Stiles pick at his food while they finished their meals in silence. As Lydia stood to leave Stiles placed a chilled hand gently on her own.

“They can never know the truth Lydia. If this saves them then it’ll be worth it.”

She slid her hand out from beneath his and laid it softly on Stiles’ shoulder murmuring, “Your secret is safe with me. I pray one day you can tell them the whole of why you did it.”

“Perhaps in a world free of Argents... and kidnapped banshees... oh and all powerful control-you-against-your-will True Names.” Stiles conceded. 

Lifting her hand from his shoulder, she set it upon his cheek - a comfort he hadn’t realized he sorely needed. Lady Lydia asked softly, her eyes searching, “Where will you go now?”

“The Emissaries' Citadel.” Stiles sighed, “It’s about time I got trained.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia has finally appeared!
> 
> Feedback and comments are so very appreciated if you have the time to say something constructive and/or kind! Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles trains at the Emissaries' Citadel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time gets a bit smudgy here folks, bear with me. I tried to include clear time markers in each section so you'd know how much time jumped. Let me know if it's to confusing and I'll go back in to add a more clear time indicator before each section.
> 
> This is also a rough half way point! Friendly self-care reminder ^-^

_It was a dark and stormy night_ , Stiles permitted himself a small sad smile as he listened to the pattering of rain on the roof of the library tower. A slow drip could be heard coming from the corner yet when he looked, Stiles could never find evidence of a leak. 

The Emissaries’ Citadel was full of odd sounds, smells, sensations that Stiles was learning to ignore. He’d once asked his new mentor, Master Deaton, and the man had cryptically intoned, “The Emissaries' Citadel is old and the magic in its walls older yet. Spells have long lives and twisted magics survive longer than most.” 

It didn’t make Stiles feel any more comfortable to be honing his spark surrounded by ancient ‘twisted’ incantations, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go. 

_Beggars can’t be choosers_. His father’s voice popped up into his mind. Rather than give into the intense feelings of loneliness and longing, Stiles turned back to the faded manuscript in front of him.

“ _Focus into the center of the crystal and let all the world slip off the sides._ ” Stiles read the directions entitled ‘Fundamentals of Scrying’ aloud. Reaching out over the table, he hovered his right hand above a large crystal ball.

“Center of the crystal. Center of the crystal. Hey World, you can slip away any second now…” Stiles felt his left knee begin to bounce and the familiar tug of his magic behind his eyes. 

Staring hard at the stone ball, Stiles leaned inward and muttered faster, “Center of the crystal. I’m looking at the center, come on show me something!” He felt burning pain right behind his eyes and his vision whited out as if he were staring into a fire. Nondescript silhouettes moved jerkily across the blinding light and Stiles held on as long as he could until the pain became too much.

With a frustrated cry, Stiles blindly leapt from his chair, banging his knees into the sturdy oak table. The crystal ball was knocked loose from its stand and rolled off the table, coming down heavily on Stiles’ foot.

Clutching his head and rubbing his knee while hopping on one foot, Stiles let out a string of curses as he tried to stave off tears. 

“With language like that, one would think I was training you in the arts of sailing, not sorcery.” Stiles blinked rapidly until his vision cleared and revealed the amused face of his mentor.

“It’s no use Master Deaton! I’ve been at the basics for days now and all I’ve gotten are headaches and the occasional flash of… of… of I don’t even know since it’s all dark and bright and just useless!”

“That which is worthwhile is seldom easy to obtain.” Deaton bent over to pick up the crystal ball that had rolled gently over to his feet. “However that does beg the question, why are you spending all of your time on a task your magic is not suited for? Shields and wards, protection magic is your natural inclination, yet you invest every energy on scrying - a magic that works against the nature of your Spark.” 

The older mage strode confidently back towards the table to replace the crystal back on its stand. Stiles dropped into his seat sulkily. Deaton pulled a paper out from under the many scrolls on scrying Stiles had strewn across the table.

“And who may I ask is ‘The Informant’?” 

Stiles groaned and threw himself gracelessly onto the tabletop, his face cradled in one elbow, “No one.” The young mage could practically feel his mentor raising one eyebrow skeptically in a fashion all too reminiscent of a certain Prince Commander Stiles was trying his damnedest not to think about. “No one, not yet.” he mumbled.

A chair scraped across the flagstone, robes rustled, and Stiles heard Deaton take a deep sigh. 

“Let me see if I understand this properly. You intend to break the stance of neutrality the Emissaries have upheld for millennia by sending magical aid to a coalition locked into war with another empire?”

“Yep.” Stiles popped his ‘p’ and shrugged his shoulders, “No need to worry though Deets cause I’ll be dead before I learn how to scry at this rate. I’ll just fry my brain and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Well now, I wouldn’t be a very good teacher if it took you a lifetime to learn scrying.” Deaton squeezed Stiles’ shoulder. “Now that my reputation is on the line, I guess we’ll have you breaking a 5,000 year old act of neutrality before the week is up.”

Stiles’ head popped up, “Wait, what?! You’re okay with this?!”

Deaton smirked and candlelight sparkled in his eyes, “Emissaries meddle Stiles, we just make sure to never get caught. Now, show me what you’ve been doing.”

Shaking off his surprise, Stiles reached out once more and focused on the center of the crystal ball.

“Speak your thoughts aloud.” Deaton commanded.

Swallowing Stiles began his litany of, “Center of the crystal, world slips away,” until the pressure and heat built up behind his eyes and his vision grew brighter and the pain increased the harder he pushed.

“Stop Stiles, Stop.” The order was firm.

“I… Can’t.” Stiles grit out, the burning searing his mind and his hand shaking with exhaustion. “I’m trying but-!” a degree of panic laced Stiles’ words as another wave of pain cut him off.

Suddenly, the light in his vision disappeared and the pain subsided. The world came back into view slowly and Stiles trembled lightly. It took him a moment to realize that Deaton had thrown one long sleeve of his maroon master's robe over the crystal ball, severing Stiles’ connection. 

“Dear boy, was that similar to your experience all day?” Deaton’s voice was soft but some part of Stiles recognized a hint of horror in the other man’s tone. He nodded weakly.

“And you are in pain now?” Another nod.

“Seven Seals Stiles! If it hurts _stop_. Has no one told you that magic should not hurt?”

Stiles gave a morose shrug and curled inward, the shame making him feel very small indeed while his Mentor took a few calming breaths.

“Alright then, let’s start at the beginning. If any spell you are casting causes pain, stop. Immediately. Overcommitting your Spark can kill you if you’re not careful.”

The shame turned to guilt and fear. He'd been joking about death by fried brain. Stiles felt the press of tears once more.

“In the morning, I will teach you how to end a spell when you get in too deep. For now however, let’s get you to bed.” 

The shriek of Deaton’s chair sliding against flagstone, the patter of the rain, the beating of his own heart all suddenly became too much.

“Please sir,” Stiles whispered, “I just want to see my father.” The younger man’s voice broke and Deaton froze briefly before retaking his seat with a sigh. 

“Then let us take a look, shall we?” Deaton paused, perhaps gathering his thoughts.

“Stiles I want you to envision your father in your mind’s eye. What does he make you think? Feel? How does he smell, move, speak? Hold not just the image of your father in mind, but all of him, every piece of him that you carry in your heart, and when you have all of him gathered, open your eyes slowly.”

Stiles thought of his father wearing his trusty old Captain of the Guard uniform as he sat in his office back on the Hill. The smell of leather tack and a small smile that was never too hard to coax into a full grin. Warm hugs that always meant safety and acceptance. Home. The heat of his Spark spread over Stiles like an embrace.

Tears made Stiles’ vision blurry as opened them slowly at Deaton’s instruction and there before him Stiles saw his father, sitting at a desk reading a report. The Captain’s eyes kept drifting sideways to a different piece of parchment partially obscured by various other papers. Stiles recognized the seal stamped at the very top. A letter from the Prince Commander to the father of a banished traitor. Stiles blinked and the vision was gone. He hid his face once more in his arms to cry quietly.

“There now, scrying is not so difficult with proper instruction. Though, perhaps I should rephrase my earlier rule, magic should never hurt _physically_. The pain of the truth however, that is not something we can cut off by ending a spell. Come along Stiles, all will look brighter in morning light.”

Deaton helped Stiles stand and keep upright as the young mage realized how weak his legs felt. 

“What good fortune that your chamber lies beside the library,” Deaton grunted as they approached Stiles’ door. The younger man was hardly holding any of his own weight and his eyes drifted closed every few seconds. 

“I will come by mid morning to deliver you food and your lesson. Until then, you are to remain in bed. Do you understand Stiles? Stiles?” Deaton shook the boy lightly until he acknowledged his mentor with a limp nod.

“You are far too familiar with your magic being exhausted. That is a conversation for another time. One that we _will_ be having” Deaton added sternly, laying Stiles on his cot.

Deaton breathed out heavily and gazed down at the young man who had rode a weary mare through the enchanted mist surrounding the Emissaries' Citadel not two weeks ago. He’d recognized the name ‘Stilinski’ immediately, having been the Wizard called in to treat the boy’s first encounter with exhaustion a little over three years prior when his Spark had ignited saving young lord McCall from a crazed shifter. 

The boy was certainly something. Deaton vowed to keep a better eye on his troublesome pupil. For now though, he let the boy rest.

*****

“Four days is long enough!” Stiles fought to keep his voice down in the library, “I’ve rested, and now I know how to stop if it becomes too much. I promise I’m ready.”

Deaton hummed and, after a very long moment, nodded slowly.

Stiles made grabby hands at the crystal ball Deaton had stashed away somewhere in his heavy robes and grinned at the sight of the heavy translucent orb.

“Do you recall how to scry properly?”

Stiles bobbed his head once as he set up the crystal. Sitting back, Stiles considered who he wanted to scry first. At last, Stiles closed his eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on the person he willed his magic to know, to find, to reveal to him.

Opening his eyes slowly, Stiles was met with a pleasant sight. Little Alicia sat atop Isaac’s shoulders as he walked through a Hale camp. Stiles was surprised that he could feel the little girl’s joy through the vision.

“I’m not surprised,” Deaton responded when Stiles made his observation known, “children are less defensive of their emotions and project them openly.”

Stiles wondered if he could switch focus while scrying and brought forth all he knew about Isaac. Sure enough, Isaac came into greater focus and Stiles suddenly knew the Beta was delivering messages around the camp: Get ready to move out.

“Why can’t I hear anything?” Stiles broke from the vision and glanced over at Deaton who watched the young mage closely for signs of fatigue. 

“How did you direct your magic? If you only direct it to give you sight, that will be your outcome. You may have to study for years to obtain both sight and sound.”

“I don’t have years.” Stiles muttered and turned back to the ball.

He was tempted to try Lady Lydia next but the Banshee would probably sense his magic and worry she’s being spied on by an Argent mage. Scott and Derek… Stiles wasn’t ready yet. That left Erica and Boyd.

Stiles found the shewolf in the training arena hacking a straw dummy to confetti with her claws, her eyes glowing bright yellow despite the afternoon sunshine. Boyd came into view, arms raised to show he was not a threat. Stiles watched with guilt swirling inside him as Boyd got close enough to wrap Erica into a hug and she collapsed into him. He tossed out the thought of trying to listen in as quickly as it came. Their conversation was private and their problem painfully obvious: Erica was grieving for a friend she’d lost. Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if her true name had changed as well but he hadn’t the heart to try and ask Lydia. 

Stiles broke the connection and swayed a bit.

“That’s enough for today.” Deaton made to stand.

“I’m fine, Deets, really! It was just a little lightheadedness. I’m good now.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.” Deaton hauled the younger man up and away from the crystal ball, noting how the boy’s eyes followed the magical tool as they left the library.

*****

“I thought I might find you here,” Deaton took his usual seat beside a drawn looking Stiles. Three months since learning to scry and the young mage was pushing himself hard.

“I had to check on them,” Stiles rasped and nodded gratefully when Deaton handed him a mug of tea.

“As you do everyday, in every spare moment between lessons and now apparently into the night.”

Stiles watched the steam rise from his mug, “They’re at war. What if something happens?”

“Indeed. What if?” Deaton let forth a weighted sigh, “Stiles I hate to remind you, but you are banished from all Hale lands, the lands where your friends are fighting. _If_ something were to happen, you would only be torturing yourself here watching.”

“I’d find a way.” The fervor in Stiles’ voice worried the older mage.

“I’ve no doubt you’d try and get yourself killed. Stiles, there have been many mages who have lost themselves to scrying. Do not waste your own life watching the lives of others. Your friends would not want this for you.” Deaton stood to leave and turned at the door, “and for Merlin’s sake, get some sleep!”

Stiles huffed out what may have been a laugh if he’d had the energy. Running his fingers over the smooth surface of the crystal ball, Stiles considered all he had seen that night.

Their camp had moved again and Isaac was leading the storytelling around a roaring fire, sandwiched between Erica and Scott. Erica grinned widely and slung insults while Scott sat with a quiet smile, his arm thrown over Isaac as if he was holding the other man close. 

_So he doesn’t leave like I did_. The errant thought made the air thinner, difficult to breath.

Derek wasn’t there with them around the campfire. He never was these days. The Prince commander was tucked away in his command tent looking about as tired as Stiles felt. 

And that was the gist of it. Everyone was more or less fine... without him. 

Stiles pulled his hair a bit and cursed his rampant insecurity. _I don’t want them to be living every moment in misery! It’s been nearly four months._ He reminded himself harshly. _They deserve to be happy... even if I’m not._

With that, Stiles sat upright and closed his eyes, tapping into his magic reserves. There wasn’t much left, but it would have to do. Stiles had one more duty before he could sleep. 

Stiles closed his eyes and focused on a single name, an idea really since he didn’t know who he would end up watching. _Argent_. 

In all his attempts, Stiles had never gotten Kate. Somehow the Crazy Bitch could go undetected by his magic - not an outlandish notion seeing as she had protection wards on her poisonous tool kit while staying at the Hale palace - but Stiles always tried anyway. 

The other Argents though were less defended and if Stiles tried hard enough he could see across the great expanses of space between the Emissaries’ library and the vast kingdom of Argent. Magic was awesome.

The problem was that there were so many damned Argents and Stiles never learned their names nor enough about them to try and scry a particular one. He had lucked out and found King Gerard twice. He had once stumbled upon Crown Prince Christopher as well. On far more frustrating occasions, Stiles had watched a milkmaid tend a baby calf and a stable hand ready a horse simply because they considered themselves _of Argent_. Stiles had yet to figure out the particulars of scrying and Master Deaton proved reluctant to further enable Stiles. Until a more efficient method to identify the military leaders could be found, Stiles did his best.

“Who will it be tonight?” he muttered as he slid his eyes open and searched for something helpful in the crystal ball.

Books and papers lay strewn across a workbench. Flasks and glass tubes stood among the pages, chartreuse liquid flowed sluggishly through the set up. A small bright candle heated one end and cooling tubes carried condensation away. 

“A dirty distillery?” Stiles’ shoulders sagged and he was ready to cut off the vision when he noticed a familiar image on a page laying open on the workbench.

“Aconite?” The drawing of the wolfsbane was strange, the flowers smaller and the stem a sickly shade of yellow compared to the plant Stiles was more familiar with. “What are you up to?” Stiles squinted at the pages he could see in the ball. Even the smallest hint could save lives.

The vision flickered and cut out a moment later. 

“Son of a _Bitch_!” His magic nearly burned through, Stiles hadn’t the stamina to keep hold of the vision. 

Running his hands over his weary eyes, Stiles eyed the rows of leaning shelving that comprised the Citadel’s library. 

“No magic… guess I’m doing this old school.” Stiles sighed to the empty room.

It was dawn before Stiles found what he was looking for. A book on medicinal plants listed _Acontium ruinium_ , a rare form of wolfsbane with a yellow-ish stalk and leaves dotted by tiny flowers. The plant grew exclusively in Argent provinces. Stiles began devouring the passage which read:

> _Oils of_ A. ruinium _are harmless to the touch as the plant produces only diminutive amounts annually. Consumption of the plant may cause indigestion in humans and mild vomiting in shifter-kind. Some coastal communities use_ A. ruinium _as treatment for loose stool in humans and to induce vomiting in shifters. The discovery and initial classification of-_

Stiles groaned in frustration and let his finger drag across the page, skimming the faded handwritten text. Sections were illegible or smeared, one whole half page was badly water damaged. Beginning to lose hope, a few buried lines of text caught his eye.

> _Concentration of natural_ A. ruinium _oils should be avoided as they can create a highly toxic concentrate which is permeable across all natural membranes. Introduction of the_ A. ruinium _toxin to any portion of the body results in a wasting disease in both humans and shifter-kind. The toxin is notably more brutal, fast-working, and effective when administered to shifters._

The temptation to let out a ‘whoop’ of success was kiboshed by the horrific realization of what the Argents could accomplish with this wolfbane in their arsenal. 

“I need to warn them.” Stiles murmured under his breath.

Stiles raced back to his scrying table and tearing a map off of the wall as he went. Frantic, Stiles yanked a button from his shirt and pulled a loose thread from the hem of his tunic. Quickly fastening a pendulum from the two, he held his shaky hand over the map, button-pendulum dangling over the finely drawn mountains and rivers, cities and plains of the known world. 

“Distillery, find the distillery.” Stiles held the image he’d seen from the crystal ball in his mind’s eye. He focused and tried his best to ignore how his fingers twitched, how the ever-present mysterious drip persisted in the dark reaches of the library, how his thoughts nagged him with fears of his friends dying.

“Fuck!” Stiles slammed his makeshift pendulum into the table and resisted the urge to rip the fragile vellum of the map. 

“Stiles,” an all too patient voice drew the heat of Stiles’ frustration. “I know I told you to sleep hours ago.” Master Deaton strode in, his face impassive.

“I had to try Master Deaton. They’re all going to die if I didn’t. Oh Gods… They’re all going to-” Tears welled up in the younger mage’s eyes and he just about collapsed into a chair Deaton pulled out for him.

Sighing deeply, Master Deation took his own seat and asked, “Tell me from the beginning Stiles. What did you see.”

As Stiles told the Master Emissary, Deaton’s carefully composed expression shifted into one of horrified anger.

“The Argents take this too far. ‘Any portion of the body’ that means a medic - neutral aids in war times - could removed a poisoned arrow and die themselves by simply touching the Aconite.”

“Yeah, and the plant is only found in Argent territories, there would be no way for healers in Allied lands to create an antidote.” Stiles’ hands flitted anxiously over the old text.

Deaton shifted his gaze away from the book and eyed the map sprawled across the table. Picking up Stiles’ button-pendulum, his eyebrows rose at the sight of the rudimentary tool but he said nothing.

The Master held his hand out over the map, the pendulum dangling much like Stiles had only moments earlier. Sitting perfectly still, Stiles watched as the pendulum began to move.

*****

“Prince Commander, the Argent building has been burned to the ground as you ordered. Three herbalists were obtained and interrogated. The site was in the early stages of producing a rare form of concentrated wolfsbane. The herbalists confirmed that all stock was consumed by the fire.”

“And the men?”

“Unharmed and resting.”

“Thank you lieutenant. Dismissed.” Derek kept his face deceptively neutral as the young shifter exited the command tent.

“So your mysterious pen pal was telling the truth?” Erica piped up from where she was sitting on his right.

“It appears so.” Derek acknowledged softly.

“Wolfsbane being produced on a massive scale? Derek, if we hadn’t known…” Isaac let his thought trail off. They all knew how devastating that would have been.

“So do we intend to trust this ‘Informant’?” Boyd asked Derek directly, his voice low and serious.

Scott shifted somewhere behind Derek, “He- er… she? The Informant has proven themselves trustworthy.”

“Have they though?” Erica challenged. “So they tell us about one factory. Trusting them might be a trap.”

His four Betas looked to Derek, waiting for his decision.

“I received another missive yesterday.” He said at last, holding up the fine parchment signed ‘The Informant’ in large swooping letters. “More insider information. I sent out four squadrons to investigate different leads from the Informant. In one day we were able to disrupt two Argent trade routes, rescue a captive village, and launch a surprise attack on an Argent cavalry unit. That’s more ground we’ve taken in one day than this army has gained in months.”

“So the Argents have themselves a mole.” Boyd voiced.

Erica grinned wolfishly, “And we’ve got ourselves a spy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving feedback or comments as you are able! Thanks!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly a year since Stiles was sent into exile and nobody's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Chapter! I realized this is a very short chapter so I decided to post it early!
> 
> More squishy timelines - again let me know if it's too confusing!
> 
> A note about language, the term Emissary is more of a title in this fic. Anyone with magic in this 'verse can be called a Spark or a mage, however if they've trained at the Emissaries' Citadel and remain a member of the order then they are also an Emissary. To provide a bad metaphor, someone might be really interested and pick up info quickly when learning about how the human body works, but they have to be formally trained before they're considered a doctor (Hope that clarifies... Bad metaphor is bad, sorry).

“Another letter?” 

Derek looked up at the familiar voice to see where Scott was poking his head timidly through the tent flaps of the command tent.

“From the Informant.” Derek responded, reading back over the careful penmanship on the heavy parchment.

“What’s the latest from behind the Argent lines?” Wandering in to read over Derek’s shoulder, Scott squinted at the tiny text in the candle light.

“Looks like a pretty typical divide and conquer strategy. According to the Informant, Deucalion and his Alpha pack have taken Argent money in exchange for turning against us in our next major battle.” 

“He what?!”

Derek had to breath out a laugh, “I don't see why you're so surprised Scott. Deucalion isn't the man he once was. My mother always said his injury took more than just his sight.” Derek sighed, “I’ve spoken with Ethan and Aiden, the twins, you know them. They’re still loyal and are serving as my inside men. The moment Deucalion attempts to flip, he’ll find himself at the edge of a blade.”

Derek pictured the moment briefly. What could have been a blow so devastating it would win the war for the Argents was now going to be used in Derek’s favor. Again. All thanks to the anonymous Informant.

Derek rubbed a hand over his jaw before continuing, “More concerning however, is that the Argent’s current plan seems to be kidnapping and torturing Erica for information.” Scott gasped audibly.

“Do you think they know they have a mole?” Scott shifted from one foot to the other.

“They certainly seem to be desperate for intel. I’m keeping Erica by my side and assigning Boyd as her full time protector. You and Isaac will keep track of one another. While the Informant says the Argents have their eyes on Erica that’s not to say they wouldn’t settle for any one of my Seconds.” Derek bit out with distaste.

Scott nodded thoughtfully, after a pause he asked casually, “Any idea who they might be? How they get all of their information?” 

“No, but they must be someone pretty important, perhaps even Argent high command. They’d need to be among the top ranked officers to be able to know so many wide-spread details.” At that statement, Derek could feel Scott’s giddy energy behind his right shoulder. “Why, do you have any ideas?”

Scott bit his lip in an attempt to hold back a childish grin and his words came out in a rush, “I think it’s Princess Allison.”

“Princess Allison Argent. Daughter of the Argent top General and Crown Prince.” Derek considered Scott’s guess. “She could have access to plans, maps of troop movements, might even over hear something like the poison factories.”

“Right?! And I met her once at the Hill. She’s super nice, and kind. She has these dimples-” Scott coughed suddenly, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

“I hardly think your crush is evidence.” Derek made sure he kept an indulgent smile from his expression. Scott did not need the encouragement to pursue the granddaughter of the enemy.

“You have to admit she’d be a great fit.” Scott’s steadfast defense was weakened by a slight whiney quality to his tone.

“Be that as it may, we have no idea what her motivations might be, if she is the Informant. To have written these letters would mean betraying her own people. We’ve used the information the Informant gives us to launch attacks that have killed or injured hundreds of Argent troops.”

Scott’s stance wilted in the face of Derek’s logic. Running a hand over his chin, Derek sighed, “Let’s win this war, then we can try to uncover the identity of our insider, if for no other reason than to thank them.” Derek leveled Scott a gaze that told the Beta he was dismissed.

On his way out of the command tent, Scott paused and looked long faced at a smudge of ink staining the khaki tent canvas. He ran his fingers gently over the mark he remembered Stiles accidentally making one starry night as they’d left this very tent together. “I bet you’d have figured it out by now.” he whispered.

“What?” Derek looked across the tent to where Scott’s whole posture spoke of grief. Even his scent changed to include a sour undertone.

“Stiles, Sir. Stiles would have found the identity of the Informant by now. He… He was always good with puzzles.”

Derek sighed and rubbed his eyes, “He was.”

“It-” Scott’s voice choked off. Derek knew this was coming but he had hoped for at least a few days more. Standing, Derek walked to Scott and threw an arm over the younger man’s shoulder, leading him to a chair.

“It’ll be a year next week.” Scott whispered past the lump in his throat. “Stiles has been gone a whole year.”

“It was the only way to save his life Scott.” Guilt sat heavy on Derek’s shoulders.

“I know… it’s just… Maybe it wasn’t really him… what if he was bewitched by fairies and convinced to take the documents against his will! Or what about a sorceress? He’s a magic user, that could have made him a target! I bet someone put a spell on him so he would-”

“Scott. Stop.” Derek hated to shut his Second down so firmly but even after a year Scott refused to acknowledge Stiles had been the architect of his own fate. “What’s done is done.”

Scott nodded but did not look convinced. Derek brought over a mug of tea and pressed it into his pack mate’s hand. “Stiles has gone to live with the Emissaires. I wrote them to inquire if he made it about a week after he left - I figured it was the only place he could go. A Master Deaton wrote back. Stiles is safe there.”

“Did you say Master Deaton?” Scott perked up.

“You know him?”

Scott bobbed his head and pinched his face in thought. “He’s the Emissary that came after I was…” Scott’s hand drifted to his side where Derek knew he had received the bite.

“I wasn’t aware that the Emissaries sent a representative to investigate cases of rogue bites.” 

Scott’s laugh was small but refreshing as Derek could hardly remember the last time he’d heard it. “No, Master Deaton came for Stiles. When I was bit I totally passed out thinking that was the end, but I woke up like hours later to Captain Stilinski’s voice. He and a search party were trying to come get us, but there was this- this dome of lightning all around us! It was Stiles. His Spark ignited that night to save us - none of us even knew he had it in him! He created this massive force field anchored by my practice sword. It actually killed the rogue werewolf. The force field cleaved the creature clean in half and cooked it. Problem was that the lightning wouldn’t let our friends or family in either. Mom- er… the Beacon called for an Emissary to help.”

“And Master Deaton was the Emissary who came.”

Scott shrugged, “The dome dissolved when Stiles ran out of magic a few hours after the search party arrived. He burned himself out. More than anything, I think the mages wanted to recruit Stiles. Master Deaton had offered to take him to the Emissaries' Citadel just as soon as he woke up... two weeks later.”

 _Two weeks!?_ Derek couldn’t imagine waiting two weeks for a friend to wake up. Two weeks of uncertainty, of helplessness. Derek suppressed a shudder.

“Why didn’t he go with the Emissaries then?” Derek found himself asking to distance himself from the thought.

Scott shuffled his feet beneath the chair and sighed, “Me probably. I’m not sure entirely what Stiles’ whole reasoning was, but I always got the feeling he stayed because of me. He seemed to think he needed to protect me and serve the future Beacon, as if that was all there was in the world for him.”

Derek laid a heavy hand on Scott’s shoulder. The younger man looked positively crushed. _Damn you Stiles. If you chose to stay then, why didn’t you try and stay now?_ A year later, the betrayal still shifted sharply in Derek’s chest, always catching him by surprise like the unpredictable edges of broken glass.

 _Look after my brother, please_. Rang through Derek’s head in a voice that sounded too much like Stiles’. Squeezing Scott’s shoulder gently, Derek intoned softly, “When all this is over, you should visit him.”

“Yeah? You think I should?” The hope in Scott’s eyes hurt to look at he was so earnest.

“Yeah.” _I wish I could too._

*****

A country away, a young mage was hunched over his crystal ball, the vision obscured by tears and his heart burdened with loss.

Master Deaton found Stiles in much the same way when dawn light flooded through the library windows hours later.

“Stiles, child…” Deaton knelt beside the chair, pulling it away from the table so he could better see the teenager’s face. Extending the back of his hand, Deaton felt the feverish warmth on Stiles’ brow.

“Tell me what you have seen.” The older mage commanded softly. 

Stiles just shook his head, tears fell from behind a curtain of hair.

Deaton gently took the other man’s elbow and levered him up out of the chair before guiding him down to the dining hall. In what was nearly a year that young mage had trained at the Emissaries' Citadel he had become alarmingly thin.

Sitting quietly with Stiles, Deaton kept the younger man company all the while pushing plates of food and cups of fragrant tea towards the pale mage.

At long last, Master Deaton’s patience paid off when Stiles whispered brokenly, “Scott still can’t accept what I did.”

Deaton hummed but made no comment, letting Stiles fill the silence that spread between them.

“He just… He can’t accept that I’m a screw up, that I… I committed _treason_.” The confession came out barely audible. “It feels as if I’m being ripped in two. I can’t regret what I did, I can’t. I save 37 lives. I… I’ve more than made up for giving the enemy a few maps. The Hale Forces are on the verge of winning the war and… and…” Stiles’ eyes filled with tears and he curled in on himself, crying softly.

“And you cannot return to them, despite having made all of your decisions for them.” Deaton finished.

Stiles pulled his maroon emissary robes tighter around his slight frame. Deaton took in the dark bruises under the twenty-year-old’s eyes. “I think I ruined myself.” the words were spoken with quiet terror.

“Why do you think that?” Deaton asked patiently, hiding his ever growing concern. 

“I told you... about how I changed their True Names?” Deaton bent his head in acknowledgement before Stiles continued. “Well, I accidentally changed my own name too. ‘Loyal betrayer’, that’s me.”

“Stiles you shouldn’t-”

“You needed to know Master Deaton. Besides, I trust you… mostly. You needed to know though, to understand. Those words, two words that make up the name on my _soul_ , they’re opposites, they don’t belong together. I’m ripping myself in half from my very core.” Stiles’ voice had a frantic quality to it as he pressed out each phrase like the room was about to run out of air.

“I’m not so sure that is how True Names work, Stiles. And besides, your betrayal was in an effort to stay loyal. For your unique case, the terms are not necessarily opposites.”

Deaton cast his gaze over the sad figure before him. The boy had trusted him with his True Name, a trust greater than anyone had ever given Deaton before. Sighing, he made a decision.

“Stiles, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Just like how Scott needs to accept what you did, you need to accept the outcomes you chose. If you let the past rule you, you will lose sight of yourself altogether.” 

Deaton paused for a moment, considering his words carefully. “I had a student once. She was angry, raised to be hateful and she dedicated herself to the ruin of those around her. She twisted and bent her magic - and eventually herself - until she became a Darach, a dark mage with emissary training. She was my student. My responsibility. I failed her then. I refuse to fail you now.”

Stiles was shocked by his mentor’s rare moment of vulnerability, free from any cryptic remarks. “Aw, Deats, it’s almost like you care about me.” Stiles tried to joke, however neither were in the mood.

“Stiles, you need to stop scrying the Hale forces, your friends, the Argents. I should have stopped you months ago, but I’m doing so now. Aside from the emotional strain, you hardly eat or sleep. I can tell by looking at you you’re on the verge of burning out and have been for a while. Do you want to go into an unending slumber because your Spark has burnt a hole inside you?”

“I can’t stop Deaton.” Stiles shook his head, “I’m sorry but I can’t stop until the war is finished.”

“Stiles…”

“I get that you’re worried about me - and thanks for that, really - but I have to keep this up. I have to and I will until the Argents can’t hurt my friends and my family ever again.” Stiles stood, his grim expression fixed on the tight lined grain of the table before him. With a heavy sigh, Stiles picked up the plate Deaton had left out for him and promised, “I’ll take better care of myself, heck, I’ll set a bedtime it if makes you feel better. I just… I can’t abandon them. I _can’t_.”

Deaton watched gravely as his student left the room, plate in hand and an unimaginably heavy weight burdening his shoulders. When the Chief Librarian informed Deaton a few days later that Stiles was investigating the ancient magics, including the old tomes of the Darach, he rushed to Stiles’ side immediately, holding out on a hope that he might yet have time to save his student.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please consider leaving feedback and/or kind thoughts in the comments as you are able!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another year passes and the war may finally be coming to an end. Old friends (attempt to) reunite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time, once again, is squishy - as always please let me know if the time jumps are too unclear and I will do my best to fix!
> 
> Also, I realized that the use of 'Spark' and 'True Name' as a proper nouns at times is incredibly inconsistent (specifically speaking to the use of capitalization)... I'd like to say I have the energy to go back through and fix them all, but I really don't. Bear with me and I'll try to do better moving forward!

“Commander Sir!” A rider rushed up alongside Derek’s mount and pulled hard on his reigns to slow the horse quickly. The horse’s sides heaved as it pulled in air.

“Report.” Derek acknowledged the rider.

“Scouts on the western line spotted an Argent Delegation. They carry banners of peace.”

Derek nodded, “Take us there.” Derek and his four Seconds rode away from the battalion to follow the rider.

 _Finally_ . Derek thought, doing his best to keep his hopes from soaring too high. Three years of hard fighting and this war was _finally_ coming to an end. 

Nearly an hour later, they approached a river that marked the western front. Five tents had been erected on the opposite bank, Argent flags blowing in a gentle late winter breeze along with the pale pennants marking the group as a diplomatic entourage. 

At the sound of their horses approaching, tent flaps opened in the small Argent camp and a group seven of representatives approached the water’s edge. In the middle of the group was a young woman with plaited black hair and a quiver strapped across her back. 

“Prince Commander Hale,” she called out over the river when Derek and his Seconds stopped their horses on the sandy bank. “Thank you for coming.”

“Princess Argent,” Derek acknowledged her with a nod, “I assume you are here to talk about an end to this ordeal.”

“I am. My grandfather died this past fortnight with hated still burning in his heart.” News of the late king's death was not a surprise. The Informant had written Derek a letter he'd received ten days ago. 

Princess Allison continued, “My father, King Christopher Argent, requests the presence of representatives for Hale and allied lands at a peace summit held on neutral ground.”

“Neutral ground?”

Princess Allison nodded, “Land held by the Wizards about thirty leagues south-west down this river. Neutral members of the Emissaries' Citadel will mediate the summit and preceding discussions for both sides. Their presence has already been requested. As we see a swift end to this three year conflict in everyone's best interest, we wish for these peace talks to be held as soon as possible. Would you agree that two weeks gives all attending parties the necessary time to confer on the terms of a truce?”

 _Truce, not Surrender_. Argents were never ones to admit defeat, even when Hale allied forces were on the verge of crushing the remaining dregs of the Argent army and the kingdom’s coffers were bare. A truce would at the very least salvage Argent pride.

“Hale forces are a combination of twenty-three lands, provinces, independent city states, and smaller kingdoms in addition to the areas governed by the Hales. We will need at least two months for all parties to meet and agree on terms that represent our combined interests before a delegation can be sent to this peace summit.” Gods this was going to be a logistical nightmare. His mother was never fond of political circuses nor corralling dozens of diplomats. Derek kept the exhaustion from his voice when he added, “At this time, I am willing and authorized to agree to an armistice.”

“A temporary cessation of hostilities is a suitable compromise for now. While your timeline is longer than we had hoped, we do understand the limitations and mixed interests of the Hale forces. My steward will draft an agreement for us to sign.” With a curt bob of her head, Princess Allison made to dismiss Derek and his Seconds.

Derek wasn’t about to leave however, not when there was one answer he still needed.

“What of Princess Katherine?” Derek knew Kate would never accept a truce.

Princess Allison’s stoic mask cracked for a second, her mouth pulling into a slight sad frown. “My aunt has refused to recognize my father's ascension to the Argent throne and disregarded his orders. She has disappeared along with a band of her most radical followers and has been labeled a rogue entity as well as an enemy of Argent. Any action of hers thus forth are not sanctioned by King Christopher nor acknowledged by the Kingdom of Argent.” Princess Allison shifted her stance slightly. Kate’s disappearance had the Argents shaken. Kate was crazy enough to attack her own people and Chris was wise enough to know his war weary kingdom couldn't sustain fighting Hale forces while dealing with internal aggressors.

After signing an armistice agreement, Derek mounted his horse and fisted his reigns, “May the many gods Judge King Gerard fairly. Pass along my condolences to your father, would you?”

At that Princess Allison did smile - Scott had been right about the dimples. “I will be sure to pass along your _sincere_ sentiments. Safe travels Prince Commander.”

Derek offered the smallest hint of a smirk back at the princess before turning his horse and riding back to his army at a trot. As the cover of trees surrounded lined the trail and hid the shifters from sight, Derek’s Seconds rode near.

“So that’s it, we’re done at last?” Scott sounded awed.

“It’s not over until a treaty is signed,” Isaac spoke thoughtfully, “and even then, we’ll have villages to rebuild, political turmoil as lands decide to stay under the Hale banner or resume their independence, and that doesn’t include resettling the troops who haven’t seen home in more than three years.”

 _Three years… two without Stiles._ Derek shook his head as the thought popped up out of nowhere. 

Erica stared sternly ahead, “We should consider ourselves lucky the war could be won so quickly. The Argent warmachine would have had us if not for the Informant”.

“Princess Allison seemed pretty intent on ending the war,” Scott’s voice held a dreamy note to it, “maybe she is the Informant after all.”

Erica scoffed, “I know you have it bad for her, but seriously Scott. She doesn’t seem the type to betray her father and country.”

“But she-”

“Enough.” Derek’s command silenced what would have been an argument between a lovesick Scott and smug Erica stretching all the way back to the Hale forces.

They rode in silence while Derek mentally drafted the many letters he would need to write, informing recipients of the good news. His mind kept wandering however to imagining Stiles celebrating the end of the war with him, dancing together once more in the great hall for hours before venturing out into the royal gardens under the moonlight. Stiles laughing with stars reflected in his sparkling eyes. 

_Maybe a royal pardon…_ Derek cut that line of thinking off. Stiles had killed any possibility of a happy future filled with dances and garden strolls the moment he betrayed them. A pardon could not extinguish the burning hurt which filled Derek every time he thought of the errant mage. _Hope_ and _Hurt_ cut him apart inside; pieces of a broken heart which longed for a glass future that, once shattered, could never be.

Banishment. It was better than a beheading and all Derek could have done for his former… friend. Distance kept Stiles safe from the iron hand of the law. Stiles was safe with the Wizards.

_He'll be alive, he'll be happy if he stays away… even if I'm not._

*****

“Accepting this truce is the only way to ensure future peace with Argent. Any movement to exact retribution will create nothing but animosity.”

“Peace will never last while Argents have means of rebuilding their armies! The only way to prevent another war is to crush them here and now!”

“Hatred breeds nothing but more hate. By meeting the Argents on their terms, we lead by example-”

“Meet Argents on _their_ terms?! Argents are murders and liars! Have you forgotten that our last attempt to strike peace with _them_ led to the murder of King Darian and ended with an _assassination_ attempt on his son?!”

Derek worked to maintain his impassive expression as the eyes of the room glance briefly towards where he stood behind his mother’s chair. 

“What happened to King Darian and Prince Derek was unforgivable,” Beacon Melissa McCall resumed her press for peace a moment later, drawing the room’s attention back to her, “We must remember that those were the actions of a woman who has been labeled an enemy of her own kingdom and a former king who now rots for his past transgressions”

“May the gods Judge him fairly.” Derek nearly jumped at hearing his mother’s voice for the first time since she welcomed the delegates. The sheer scorn in her tone had Derek fighting a smile. Indeed, may the gods consider Gerard’s many sins and find his soul lacking.

A murmur of agreement followed the queen’s declaration and before Lord Whitmore could respond with his calls to destroy all that remains of the Argents, a guardsman burst into the room.

“Prince Commander! You are needed at the Western Gate!” The guard blurted out breathlessly before realizing he had disrupted a meeting of the twenty-three delegations in the midst of truce discussions. “A-Apologies” the young man blushed.

Derek bowed to his mother and took his leave of the room, tempted to sigh in relief as the doors closed behind him. Diplomacy was stressful where commanding an army made sense.

“What’s the situation Guardsman Dunbar?”

Dunbar glanced towards Derek as they walked at a clipped pace, “A man at the gate Sir, one of our men identified him as a traitor. By royal decree, he's to be shot on sight but none of our arrows can make contact. He has some sort of shield, Sir, the men wager it’s magic.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Dawn Sir. Said he’s here for the talks, that and something about diplomatic immunity.”

Derek felt his stomach drop at Liam Dunbar’s words. Quickening his pace to nearly a run, they reached the gate. A familiar voice climbed over the walls of the gate giving Derek pause. He breathed through his nose and focused on keeping his wolf in check as emotions swirled within him. Grief, anger, relief, longing, dread, fear - it hurt to force himself back in check, his claws leaving pinpricks of blood on his palms as they retracted.

“Sir?” Derek saw Dunbar had taken a step back, caution evident in his eyes.

“Open the gate guardsman.” The order was soft but firm. Dunbar dashed away to relay the command.

Perhaps the order was less clear than Derek had intended as ten archers descended the battlements and created a half circle around the gate as it opened, Derek stood centered just behind them.

“Finally!” Stiles’ voice was clearer now without the heavy wooden gate between them. “Aw no, not again with the arrows!” It was Stiles, pure Stiles, like nothing had changed. Despite himself, Derek fought down a grin.

“Hold your fire.” Derek commanded and walked forward to get a better look at the man he’d banished some two years prior. Stiles was taller than he remembered, still gangly as all get although the young man seemed to have better management of his long limbs. Maroon mages robes hid his figure yet Derek did not like the hollowed appearance of Stiles’ cheeks nor the dark marks beneath his eyes. A subtle scenting of the wind brought in the cracking ozone that had always belonged to Stiles - _Scent-like-lightning_ his wolf keened - yet there were undertones: the musk of old lonely books and the salt of bitter tears. Perhaps he had changed after all and the years had not been kind to either of them.

Derek realized while he had been taking Stiles’ measure, the other man had been doing the same.

“Like what you see Prince Commander?” He bowed his head to the exact measure a prince was owed by one of the neutral Emissary order, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“What are you doing here Stiles? You’re a traitor to Hale and it’s allied realms. These men have orders to shoot you on sight.”

Stiles flinched at Derek’s harsh tone - it was slight but Derek caught it before Stiles shifted his shoulders like a great weight had settled there.

“Prince Commander,” Gone was the joking mirth from Stiles’ tone, replaced with a cool professionalism. “I come from the Emissaries' Citadel to ensure peace talks with the Argents advance without violence. The presence of the Wizards was requested by Princess Allison Argent and by the old traditions, each delegation is to be joined by an appointed member of the Emissaries' Citadel while all proceedings - specifically those pertaining to the peace summit - take place.”

Why would the Citadel send the one emissary who was banished from Hale lands? Diplomatic immunity seemed too thin a shield. If Stiles stayed… He could die here. 

“And are there no other Emissaries who could make the trip, perhaps one that has not committed treason against this realm and its peoples.” Derek hated his clipped tone. 

Derek's stomach curled when Stiles wilted. “I go where I am sent Prince Commander. Surely a military man like yourself can understand that.” 

Stiles’ heartbeat remained even, yet Derek watched the young mage closely noting the incessant tapping of his left middle and pointer fingers against his side, a twitch in his right eyebrow, a hitch in his breath after he stopped speaking. Stiles wasn’t lying, and yet Derek had reason to believe the mage wasn’t telling the whole truth.

Derek fought the urge to sigh and scrub his hands over his face. Without an emissary present, anything decided by the delegates currently debating up in the palace could be called into question by the Argents during peace talks. It was a long standing tradition for an emissary to be present in order to lend validity to each sides desire to broker a peace agreement. He'd have to write the Citadel and get Stiles switched out with another emissary, but until then...

“Lay down your arms.” Derek shouted to the archers, “He’s here on orders from the Emissaries' Citadel. Stiles, come with me.” Derek turned and strode towards the castle taking care to keep his gaze ahead of him, not even glancing back to make certain the mage was following.

Catching up quickly, Stiles kept pace quietly beside Derek, _as if we are equals now_. The thought nearly caused Derek to stumble when he realized that if Stiles was sent as an emissary diplomat, he must have at least the rank of Master. Being a member of a neutral party with that title, Stiles was in essence on equal footing with Derek and even Queen Talia. 

_It's only been two years… a master in two years? Is that possible?_ Derek wondered as they walked through palace corridors. In a matter of steps, he found his conviction crumbling and the temptation to watch Stiles became too much. Derek caught himself trying to catch glimpses of the quiet mage who stared resolutely ahead.

Just as they reached the shut doors behind which the delegations sat and argued the future of their collective lands, Stiles reached out a hand to barely brushed against Derek’s arm. Derek paused, his own hand on the door handle and raised an eyebrow in question.

“I realize this request falls outside of protocol, and I understand if you deny it,” Stiles whispered before biting his lip and glaring at the door, refusing to meet Derek’s eyes.

“What is it Stiles?” Derek was surprised at how tired his own voice sounded, soft in the marble lined hallway.

“My father.” The mage’s voice was tight yet he persisted, “Is my father in there? I… I just want to be prepared is all.”

Derek willed his heart to hold together as it endeavored to break. The longing and hurt Derek had felt at seeing Stiles again could not compare, he realized, to what Stiles was feeling. Upon closer examination, Derek noted Stiles’ fingers - though mostly hidden within the lengthy sleeves of his robe - were still tapping rhythmless at his side.

“He is. Sheriff Stilinski came with the Beacon of the Hill.”

Nodding gravely, Stiles took in a stuttered breath. “Here’s to hoping I don’t give him a heart attack on sight.”

Derek resisted the urge to place a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Instead, he reached for the door handle once more, stopping just before pulling the handle. “How are you introduced?”

“Master Stiles, Diplomat of the Emissaries' Citadel.” Stiles spoke with practiced ease.

“Not Master Stilinski?” Derek thought aloud. In his experience, master emissaries tended to go by family name.

“As a traitor, I have betrayed my realm and by extension my father. I can make no claim to the family I left behind.” Derek blinked, taken aback by the bitter pain laced through Stiles’ voice. “Now if you do not mind Prince Commander, I have a job to do.” Stiles gestured towards the door.

Upon entering, the room fell quiet, the delegates each turning to face them.

“Members of this Delegation, I introduce Master Stiles, Diplomat of the Emissaries' Citadel. He comes to oversee our discussions as an impartial mediator.” 

Queen Talia met Derek’s eyes with an emotion he could not place before she extended a hand to her left where a steward was placing a chair. “Welcome Master Stiles of the Emissaries' Citadel. Thank you for making the trip.”

“It is a pleasure to do our duty in the service of peace. Thank you for accepting our presence at your proceedings.” The words were formal yet spoken with a natural ease despite their scripted nature. Stiles was anything but the loud awkward youth Derek remembered.

The various delegates jumped right back to bickering and arguing in the long hours that followed. Beacon Melissa was the most fervent voice in favor of a straightforward acceptance of a peace treaty while Lord Whitmore had a rather fanatical following interested in continuing the war. 

He garnered cheers when stating, “There is no strategy in pulling back while we have them on the retreat!”. A few more moderate voices, including the Lords and Ladies of both House Martin and Mahealani supported an end to the war while also seeking to punish the Argents through high tariffs, demands for reparations to fix ruined infrastructure, and terms wherein the Argents would be forbidden to build a military of any kind. 

Derek found himself tuning out most of the arguments, his focus fixed on watching Stiles. The young mage sat quietly beside Queen Talia, following the discussion avidly. There were moments when Derek could tell the younger man wanted to interject but clenched his jaw to prevent an argument from bursting forth. The restraint was so unlike Stiles - the Stiles Derek had known - yet necessary. The emissaries were a neural entity and, as a member of their order, Stiles had no place steering the direction of the discussions. 

All the same, Stiles was quick to correct Whitmore’s faction when one member proposed using the peace summit as a grounds to ambush Argent’s leadership.

“We all know the Argents are planning to do the same!” One lesser lord called out.

Stiles calmly faced the man, his tone level despite his words being anything but friendly, “The Argents, like all of you, are being observed by a representative of the Emissaries' Citadel, a mediating presence _they_ requested. To suggest an assault of this nature being planned in the presence of a Master Emissary is to call into question the five thousand year commitment to neutrality my order has upheld. Surely, Lord Lahey, you did not mean to insult the integrity of the Emissaries' Citadel?”

The room sat in stunned tense silence until Queen Talia spoke seriously. Derek noted a hint of mirth in crinkle of skin near her eyes as she said, “I am sure Master Stiles that Lord Lahey meant no disrespect. I call for a recess. We will reconvene tomorrow morning.” 

The Lords and Ladies each rose and bowed to Queen Talia who nodded gracefully from her seat at the head of the long table. Derek caught sight of the forlorn look on Sheriff Stilinski’s face, the gentle hand of Beacon McCall guiding him from the room, and the resigned nod Stiles gave his father in encouragement. 

When the room was mostly empty, Stiles began to stand.

“Please stay Master Emissary, I have need of your council.” Queen Talia spoke evenly.

Stiles resumed his seat and smiled, “Of course your majesty, how may I be of service.”

Derek took one stride towards the door when his mother asked, “Derek, sit with us?” 

He could turn his mother down, she’d intentionally left him an exit by making her words a request. She knew - perhaps better than anyone - how hard he had taken Stiles’ betrayal. Taking the seat to his mother’s right, Derek kept his face void of expression.

“I would like council Master Stiles regarding what your order thinks could preserve a peace between our realms and Argent in the long term. I have no desire to repeat this conflict.”

Stiles remained quiet for a spell, gathering his thoughts in a surprising display of self-restraint. Derek recalled how Stiles had always held an opinion for every matter on the tip of his tongue which he would vocalize at first chance. This careful considering side of Stiles was a jaring reminder of the time they had spent apart.

At last the mage spoke, “We of the Emissaries' Citadel have followed this ‘conflict’ as you call it for many years and have records detailing a pattern of aggression going back generations. We believe you were right, your majesty, in your original conclusion that a marriage contract could solidify peace between the Argents and surrounding realms for generations to come.”

Queen Talia replied patiently, “Forgive us, however we of Hale and our many allies are distrustful of any marriage alliance the Argents could bring forth, in light of their last proposal which killed my husband and nearly cost me my son.”

“Perhaps a marriage contract could be proposed by your faction. Allowing those allied with Hale to introduce the terms at the summit allows you to rest assured that the Argents have not buried an agenda in the contract beyond your own desires for a sustained peace.”

“And this contract you propose would mean joining my only son to another Argent Princess?” Derek felt himself pale at his mother’s words.

Stiles shook his head, “Princess Allison would need to be a party on the contract, however it would better serve your interests if you allowed one of your many allies to fulfill the terms of the contract with the Argents.”

“Explain Master wizard.” Queen Talia’s voice rang of interest and Derek could feel some of the stiffness drain from his frame.

“Your highness, peace with the Argents is not your only dilemma, as we are sure you well know. To wage this war you have done the unprecedented in creating an alliance with twenty-three surrounding provinces, lesser kingdoms, and city states. As a common enemy is dealt with, you will need to broker agreements with each of those holdings to ensure peace will last for your kingdom. As you could hear today, there are many who will be dissatisfied with whatever agreement is reached with the Argents.”

“And how exactly will allowing one of the twenty-three to join house with Argent help ease tensions?” 

“Fear of Hale forces which greatly outstrip their own is what has prevented these smaller holdings from causing trouble in the past. You have shown them the power of uniting. The lords and ladies who sat here today worry that Hale may seek to engulf their lands as they feared Argent would. You risk becoming the new common enemy should the delegates feel their autonomy is at risk. We emissaries of the Citadel propose that allowing one of the twenty-three to be joined with Argent, preferably a holding far from the Argent border, would be perceived as a gesture of good faith by the smaller holdings currently under Hale protection. A symbol of respect between Hale and surrounding lands. Such a gesture could smooth over or completely prevent potential future conflicts with current allies.”

Queen Talia pursed her lips while she thought over Stiles’ argument. Derek recalled Isaac’s words from a few weeks prior, however was ashamed to admit he had not given the potential of another war much thought. Ending the current war had been his goal for so long it was painful to consider a second one starting soon after - especially seeing as he would be fighting against good soldiers he now considered his own.

“Picking a groom for Princess Allison becomes a point of contention. We risk showing favoritism towards one holding or another with an offer to join their house with that of Argent.”

Derek agreed with his mother, “We might just be handing over lands that trusted us to the enemy. We’d be helping the Argents to create a stronghold of loyalists within our own united lands if they choose to restart the war.”

Stiles folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Indeed, you would need to select an ally with a reputation for honesty, healthy yet vital trade relations with the majority of your other allies, and a history of maintaining peace. Ideally, they would also have an established loyalty to your house, even after they inherit their family’s power - or are elected into power as would be the case for Scott McCall as future Beacon of the Hill.”

Derek sat upright. “You little shit!” He exclaimed earning rebuke from his mother and a smirk from Stiles. “He planned this all along!” Derek could not fathom how Stiles had done it, however there was no denying Scott was the perfect candidate.

“Derek, care to explain why you are accusing a Master Emissary of impartiality?” His mother looked livid.

“Yes Prince Commander, do use your words.” Ah, there was the condescending asshole Derek remembered.

“Scott has been trained to be the future Beacon since childhood, his people love him and now that he’s a war hero there’s no competition for him to be elected to run the Hill after his mother steps down. Beacon Melissa has upheld the Hill’s reputation as peace seeking and their central position makes them an essential trading partner with nearly all of our allies. Lord Whitmore and the rest of his sympathizers have to pass through the Hill to reach port cities governed by houses Martin and Mahealani.” Derek sighed, “And, after the wolfsbane assassination attempt, I accepted Scott McCall as one of my Seconds. House Hale has his allegiance through me on the basis of an unbreakable oath set forth in the old laws.”

Queen Talia looked thoughtful, “And do you think he would be amenable to a proposed marriage contract with Princess Allison?”

Stiles snorted loudly before quietly whispering “My apologies your majesty”.

Derek groaned, “He’s been infatuated with her since they met a few years back.”

The Queen’s eyebrows rose but she gave no other indication of her surprise. “Derek, please speak with your Second. I would like him to suggest the union with the Hill’s support as a means of maintaining long term peace at tomorrow's meeting in order to avoid accusations of favoritism. Hopefully with more assurance that a peace treaty can be upheld, the more argumentative parties can be persuaded to advocate for less aggressive means of ending this war.” She then turned to face Stiles, “I have heard much of you since we last spoke, Master Stiles. I never had the chance to thank you for rescuing those living in Fernridge. If we cannot save the most vulnerable among us, we can have little hope to save ourselves.”

Stiles gaped in shock at the queen’s words before softly replying, “I did what I could, your majesty, there is no thanks necessary.”

“You did what was right despite knowing the consequences. The Citadel is most fortunate to have you.” With that she stood and they along with her. “Thank you for your council this afternoon Master Stiles. A steward will show you to your chambers and we will see you tomorrow morning.” She swept out of the room giving orders to attendants as she went.

Derek watched Stiles carefully. The younger man looked exhausted but a light smile played at his lips.

“How long have you been planning that marriage contract for Scott?” Derek asked, cringing at the heat in his voice.

Stiles however seemed unfazed, “You are too suspicious Prince Commander. Sometimes the stars align so perfectly it is impossible to miss the constellations that appear. And as with starlight, opportunities often take years before they can be seen clearly for what they are.”

“Do they train you to speak cryptically at the Emissaries' Citadel?” Unsure why he was trying to antagonize the other man, Derek felt as his feet shifted into a familiar sturdy position he used when fighting. 

“It would seem so.” Stiles said simply.

“You shouldn’t be here Stiles.” Fear mingled with _frustrationPainBETRAYAL_ as the words slung out of Derek's lips like an accusation. “Why did you come?”

“I already told you, I was following orders-”

“I know your tells Stiles. Enough with the half truths.” Derek cut him off.

The mage paused before he spoke quietly, sounding young, “Sometimes we are desperate to align our own stars, even if it means getting burned. Good evening Prince Commander.” With a tight bow, Stiles took his leave. As the robes of Stiles’ order flared out behind him in a wave of deep red and the doors to the council room shut once more, Derek felt like he had shattered a part of himself which Stiles had broken within him two years before.

*****

The walk to his guest chamber felt like an eternity. As the door clicked shut behind him, Stiles kicked out in frustration, slamming his foot hard into a wardrobe that did not budge. Sliding down the wall beside the sturdy furniture, Stiles landed heavily on the floor. Pressing his face into his knees, he let the tears burning behind his eyes fall quietly. 

_You shouldn’t be here Stiles._ Derek’s voice echoed harshly in his mind.

Despite having begged Master Deaton to allow him to come and oversee the Hale faction, he found the older man had been right. This was not a joyous reunion of long lost friends. Returning had been cold and formal. Seeing the hate in Derek’s gaze and the raw pain in his father’s made one thing clear: coming here had been a mistake.

When the light entering through the guest room window began to fade, Stiles produced a long elegant plume from within his robe and some parchment tinted a cool green. With a flick of his hand, Stiles created orbs of light to illuminate his corner of the room and set about whispering his report to the quill which transcribed his words quickly to the green page. The words would appear as they were written on a rosy red sheet located on Master Deaton’s desk.

Stiles was thorough and detailed in his report. He would need them if anyone accused him of impartiality. Master Deaton had stressed the importance of documentation before Stiles had left. Stiles wanted to demonstrate he was capable of acting as an emissary diplomat, even if he no longer wanted to be, hiding in a Hale guest suite.

While Stiles was contemplating if he could justify using magic to get food from the kitchens without being seen, he heard a knock at the door. Stiffly, he rose from his spot on the floor and wiped his face dry with a sleeve before answering with caution.

“I’ve come to seek council from a Master emissary about the wellbeing of my son.”

Stiles felt tears in his eyes once more as his father pulled him into his arms.

“Dad-” Stiles choked out, hearing his father close the door behind them.

“Hey Kiddo.”

They stayed like that for a long while, each holding onto the other, until another rap at the door jolted the two apart. Sheriff Stilinski answered and thanked a servant for the tray of food he’d brought.

“I figured you’d be hungry, son.”

“I hope you ordered a salad for yourself.” Stiles laughed brokenly, wiping away a few errant tears.

“Of course.” the Sheriff sighed and Stiles couldn’t help the smile that bloomed across his face. Perhaps coming wasn’t as terrible a mistake as he’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Anyone catch the Pirates of the Caribbean reference?)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to peace is anything but peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for battle-related trauma, stab wounds, and cursing
> 
> Time is once again smudgey, thanks for bearing with me! If an area is unuclear regarding the timeline, please let me know and I'll clarify. Thanks!

“Do you think Stiles hates me?” Scott asked upon entering Derek’s suite unannounced.

Derek groaned and tried to focus on packing his saddle bags for the peace summit. “He doesn't hate you.”

“He’s been in the palace for two weeks and I hardly see him. He disappears so quick I'm not sure I saw him at all. I think he’s avoiding me.”

“He’s in his room avoiding everyone. Ask Isaac or Erica.”

“Yeah but they haven’t been his best friend since like forever. I mean, I get it if he’s angry. I’ve been a terrible friend! You know, I never wrote him once while he was training at the Citadel.”

“Scott. Stop.” Derek straightened up and faced his Second sternly. “You didn’t write him because he was and _still is_ legally considered a traitor in all allied holdings _and_ we were in the middle of fighting a war. He’s probably just maintaining professionalism by keeping distance. Without the diplomatic protection of the Emissaries, he’d already have been shot for stepping on Hale territory.”

“You wouldn’t shoot him?! Right?”

“It’s the law Scott.” Derek sighed. “It’s not like they could hit him anyway.” He mumbled, remembering Guardsman Dunbar’s description of a magic shield.

“Yeah, but shooting at him still sends a message! It’s like telling him he’s not welcome.”

“He’s _not_ welcome Scott! That’s the whole point of banishment!” He’d shouted and he felt bad about doing so a second later when Scott’s entire frame drooped pitifully.

Derek sighed and walked over to Scott, leading the younger man to sit on the couch where he slouched, head hanging and eyes fixed on the floor.

“I’m supposed to get married.” Scott uttered under his breath, so softly it was a strain for Derek to make out, even with enhanced hearing. 

“The delegation finally agreed to the terms in the treaty’s eighth draft but only as long as I can convince Princess Allison to to marry me.” His voice held a shocked and breathy quality Derek could certainly relate to. 

“I’m sorry Scott. I know how unfair it is to put all this on you.”

“Unfair? You know what’s unfair? I’m proposing to a princess and my best friend can’t even come to my maybe wedding.” Scott shuddered.

With no idea how to help, Derek patted his Second’s back a few times heavily, his eyes turned heavenward. 

“How do I get her to like me?” Scott asked some time later.

“I’m really not the person you should be asking. My last fiance tried to kill me and started a war.” Derek paused before continuing thoughtfully, "Scott, you have nothing to worry about. When we spoke, Allison was honest about wanting to end this war. She will accept the marriage clause."

Scott gave a displeased hum and scrunched up his nose.

"I don't want her to say yes because her arm is being twisted. I know there's no time for it, but a chance at romance and a little undying affection would be nice.”

Scott scooted away to face Derek more easily, “If you really liked someone- Loved someone… How would you show it?” 

“Ask Isaac, he’s got a flair for romance. Or Lady Lydia. She’d have a field day with you.”

“Come on Derek, how do you show someone you love them?”

Derek glared at his hands where he’d folded them in his lap, clasping them tightly together. “I… I don’t know Scott. I guess I’d do anything to keep them safe and hope that’s enough to…” Derek trailed off. What was he even saying? 

“To show them you care?” 

“Yeah. something like that.”

“Like Stiles?”

Derek wheeled back, eyes wide, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“That’s what Stiles said once, about how he showed he loved someone. Sometimes he goes a little overboard. After his mom died he convinced the whole Hill to keep bacon away from the Sheriff’s plate.”

“Oh.” Derek sank back into the couch as a contemplative silence grew between them. 

Scott chuckled lowly a moment later and Derek sighed, rolling his head to glare at the younger man. “What?”

“It’s nothing, just I think it's good Stiles is back.”

“He's in danger every minute he's here. How is that a good thing?” Derek groaned again, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Good for you.” Scott’s voice was soft but sure. When Derek raised a sceptical eyebrow Scott continued with, “It was something Erica said once before… before he had to leave. She joked that the two of you were good for one another. I mean we’re your _Seconds_ and you don’t listen to us half the time. But Stiles… you always listened to Stiles.”

“He’s persuasive.” Derek muttered.

“He’s stubborn. Same as you.” Scott let out a shaky breath. “Now that’s he’s back, maybe you can-”

“He’s not ‘back’, Scott. He’s a traitor and as soon as the peace summit is over he loses his diplomatic immunity. Remember that, it’ll only hurt more if...it’ll only hurt if you let yourself get used to the idea that he’s ‘back’.”

“You and Stiles though-”

“No. I’m not sure why we’re even talking about this, but there is no way I, a prince and military commander, can be friends with a known traitor.”

“But-”

“Even now he’s one diplomatic misstep from a public execution. By all rights he shouldn't be here. I tried telling him that but-”

“You what?!” Scott grew rigid beside him.

“Well it’s true! It's not safe, he shouldn’t be here!”

Derek felt Scott’s weight lift from the couch cushion. “I can’t believe you would say that?! He’s your friend! My family!”

“Doesn’t make him any less of a traitor.”

“How can you say that?!”

“Because it’s true Scott!”

“I don’t care! This is Stiles! Tireless, brilliant, loyal-to-a-fault Stiles!” Scott’s footsteps sounded, marching for the door.

Derek groaned and called after him, “We leave tomorrow at dawn. Ask the others about wooing the princess, that’s an order.”

“Screw you Derek! I can’t believe- No wonder he hates us! Why would you say that to him!?”

The door slammed and Derek felt the vibrations reverberate through his body.

“Because I’d do anything to keep him safe.” Derek admitted to the empty room.

*****

Perhaps Scott had been right and Stiles was avoiding them. Derek knew the mage traveled with the caravan destined for the peace summits and yet in the week they'd been on the road, he was scarcely seen. With each passing day, Derek caught himself standing in his stirrups to look out over the caravan hoping to catch sight of dark hair and pale skin wrapped in hardy maroon robes. From guardsmen he learned that Stiles kept to the edges of their group, riding in the most easily overlooked locations. At night, he popped a small canvas tent nearly on the edges of the magical protective perimeter that royal mages constructed at sundown, keeping to himself and tending his own small cookfire.

It was one such humble set up that Derek came to visit.

“Stiles?” He called softly to the dark tent, the firepit barely warm to the touch but sufficiently extinguished after holding flames perhaps two, three hour back.

No sound came from the tent and Derek sighed. He reached forward to open the tent flap.

“Stiles I need to talk to y-AH!” A miniature jet of lightning crackled around Derek’s fingers. The words ‘Thank you for your interest in Emmissary Order Services. Working hours are sunrise to set. I will be happy to serve you tomorrow.’ sparked across the back of Derek’s hand before disappearing into the night. 

“Damnit Stiles.” Derek cursed under his breath, unconsciously rubbing his hand where the letters had danced across his skin a moment before.

Fifteen minutes later, Derek tracked the mage’s scent and found Stiles. He was nearly invisible in his dark red robes sitting cross-legged, hands folded in his lap, and eyes closed at the farthest edge of the caravan’s perimeter.

“Stiles.”

The emissary didn’t stir. The stillness was so unlike Stiles that Derek found himself unsettled. 

“Stiles, I’d like to talk with you.” Nothing. No response. Was this normal for a magic user? Did Stiles need help?!

Derek sat a body length away from the mage and took in his appearance beneath the light of the gibbous moon. He looked younger with his face slack and the tight cench of his jaw smoothed out. A weariness still clung to him yet the tired bruising under his eyes was harder to make out, even with Derek’s enhanced sight. 

_Beautiful_. Stiles seemed to glow in the moonlight, pale skin illuminated, hair dark with a glossy silver edge to it. His hair was different than before his banishment, longer now so it curled softly at the edges. Derek clasped his hands tightly together, preventing himself from brushing an errant wisp from Stiles’ forehead.

 _This is ridiculous!_ With a huff, Derek rose smoothly. In the same instant, Stiles let out a slight gasp followed by a deep pained groan.

“Stiles?”

The mage’s eyes pinched closed before fluttering open, dazed and confused for a moment.

“Derek?” Stiles rasped. _How long has he been sitting here?!_ Derek pulled out a canteen from his belt and passed it to the younger man. The prince could barely hide his relief at hearing the mage say his name for the first time in over two years. 

“Do I need to call for a healer?” Derek resumed his seat, keeping distance between them.

“What?” Clarity flooded into Stiles’ eyes. In an instant, Derek felt walls drawn up between them. “No, no I'm fine. Water’s fine. Thanks.” Stiles gestured the canteen briefly before taking another mouthful.

“What were you doing.” Derek winced when the words came out harsher than he’d intended. Antagonizing the mage had not been his intent.

“Strengthening the warding around the caravan.”

“Are Hale spellcasters not strong enough?”

“What? No! Morrell is great. Powerful, scary, definitely manipulative, but great. I just-... building shields isn’t her forte. I used to help… before.” Stiles’ hand fluttered vaguely.

“She’s served us well all through the war.”

Stiles sighed forcefully. “What do you want Derek!? I was trying to help! Is that a crime?”

“It is when you steal maps and betray your friends for a half baked rescue attempt that gets you banished!” 

They were standing and yelling and Derek couldn’t remember what had happened to whispering and sitting.

Stiles flexed his fingers at his sides and turned to face the shields that now crackled with visible lightning for three meters in each direction away from the mage causing the red to stand out brightly in Stiles’ robe. 

“Do you really want to do this now?” the mage’s eyes gleamed dangerously.

“I want to know how you could be so stupid! You're a strategist Stiles and nothing you did that night makes sense! You gave up all our troop locations, our supply routes, mission objectives. Your actions bred mistrust in the ranks, and Scott-” Derek’s anger choked his words off. He breathed in deeply through his nose and continued. “You saved lives, I get that. But saving that village put everyone, _everyone_ in twenty-three independent holdings that _trusted_ us to keep them safe at risk. Because of you, one village could have cost us the war.”

Stiles glared at the ground, the lightning had faded while Derek ranted. 

“What do you want me to say? I can’t regret my actions Derek. Fernridge was going to be a massacre. ”

“And Scott? What about him? You know he still thinks you’re innocent. Compelled by pixies seems to be his favorite theory. You weren't here to hear all of his crazy explanations, his justification for what you did. Gods dammit Stiles! I was the one who had to break the truth to him time and time again because you didn’t just betray him… You broke him.” _You broke me._ Derek refrained from tagging on.

“I can’t regret my actions.” Stiles repeated hollowly. He turned to hide his face but Derek still smelled salt and water in the air.

“Well maybe you should!” Derek felt his claws press against his palms and knew his eyes must be glowing a dull red in the moonlight. 

“There’s no changing what’s past and no use dwelling on it.” Stiles’ words sounded stiff, the repeated advice of a master back at the Emissaries' Citadel. Tense silence grew between them before Stiles spoke so softly Derek only caught it with his heightened hearing, “I have to believe I made the right choice.”

“So do I. I sent you away to keep you safe. Coming here with the slimmest protection of diplomatic immunity? Come on Stiles, that’s a good way to get shot.”

“Shot _at_ maybe. Arrows aren’t likely to hit me, not now - but you already knew that.” Stiles looked at his hand as sparks danced between his fingers. “The Citadel has a strong reputation. Wearing these robes alone should have been protection enough. I really was sent here on official orders.”

Derek felt exhaustion setting deeply into his bones. “Why did you ask to be sent?” 

A long pause before Stiles looked over at Derek, wide eyes catching the moonlight. 

“I came because I missed you… all - all of you. I’m so tired of being alone and… and I missed you.”

Derek held his breath. Part of him wanted to pull the younger man close and never let go. Another smaller part was angry and childish, willing to shout back, _Yeah, and who’s fault is that?!_

It was however fear that won out over all other emotions. He’d made sacrifices and allowances for Stiles that he couldn’t say he’d have made for anyone else. He’d broken age old Hale law in banishing Stiles instead of beheading him on the spot. As much as it hurt, Derek needed to hold onto his resolution.

“Well I didn't.” Derek heard the stutter of his own heart. The lie came out heavy and cold, marble in the walls of a mausoleum. Words that left Derek feeling empty. 

Stiles froze, an abbreviated nod came next as to say he agreed, unsurprised perhaps. His easy acceptance made Derek's stomach turn.

“Thank you for the water, Prince Commander. Sleep well.”

As Stiles walked away towards where his tent was set aside from the rest of the caravan, Derek knew with certainty he wouldn’t be sleeping that night.

*****

Stiles sealed wax on the lip of his letter as Lydia came rushing into his tent. 

“Glad you could make it.”

“Stiles, explain yourself. Looking at you… I feel like screaming.”

The emissary master sighed and smoothed the crease of his letter once more against his lapdesk with a shaky finger. “Derek found me. We...talked. He said- he was right, I shouldn't be here. I made a mistake Lydia, coming back... I’m not helping bring peace, I'm just tearing old wounds open.”

“Stiles…”

“I’m sorry Lydia. I was selfish. I was selfish and lonely, so lonely. I didn't see everyone was healing - had healed, moved on. Misery loves company, I suppose.” The laugh that followed was so bitter and choked it could have been a sob.

Lydia clenched her fists at her sides and leveled Stiles the hardest looked he’d ever received from the banshee. “Stiles Stilinski you will cease this pity party. You are a Master of the Emissaries' Citadel and sworn facilitator of peacekeeping. If you leave, the Hale Allied forces will be left without their impartial observer and their terms can be called into question by the Argents. We have all lost too much these past few years for you to put this hard won peace at stake.” 

“That’s why I have to go! I’m putting everyone on edge and my loyalties are already suspect based on my history.”

“You are of the Emissaries' Citadel, not of Hale nor the Hill, not even an Argent spy.”

Stiles sighed and laid his head on his knees. “I don’t want to fight. Please, just take this letter for me to the summit.”

Lydia sat gracefully beside Stiles on the bed mat, “Where do you intend to go?”

Shrugging, Stiles lifted his head. “There isn’t much left for me. By leaving, I rescind the diplomatic protection to the Emissaries' Citadel and desert the Order so there’s no way I can go near neutral lands. There's a pesky ‘shoot on sight’ order anywhere held by Hale & Friends. The Argents won’t touch me with a ten foot stave if peace proceedings succeed. I’ll have to go further. North...The Long Road maybe.”

Lydia brushed her slender fingers through Stiles’ hair, “Hush and listen to me. Heartache makes you desperate. The emissaries are good for you. They are home. A place your father can visit and your friends - when they realize their mistake - will know to look for you. You will not take the Long Road. You will stay and finish your job here. When the peace you have sacrificed so much for is achieved, then you will return to the Emissaries' Citadel and find your own peace.”

“But-”

“Shhh, no Stiles. You’ve exhausted yourself keeping us safe, and a tired mind fuels dark thoughts.” She took the resignation letter addressed to Master Deaton from Stiles’ hand and held it over a candle flame. They watched as the parchment blackened and curled.

“Get some sleep. I’ll be back in the morning to make sure you eat. Peacekeeping is hungry work and you’ve neglected yourself long enough.” Lydia said smartly, standing and excusing herself from the mage’s tent.

Stiles starred at the ash on his little desk for a long moment. He felt his spark flickering within him and while she was right, he had used more than was probably advisable, he felt a burning need to reinforce the wards and scry Argent forces for any sign of danger. He pushed the ashes into a small pile as he thought over the many spells he’d come across in the Palace library. Perhaps there was a spell he’d forgotten which could help fix what he’d broken with his friends. With Derek. 

_Within Derek._ Hadn’t Lydia said his betrayal had changed Derek’s name? 

“‘The fool of Fate digs his own grave as he runs in place’” Stiles quoted the old Hill saying quietly. 

He’d do as Lydia said. Ensure the peace talks succeed then return to the Emissaries' Citadel, leaving Derek, Scott, and all the others to live their lives without his interference.

Stiles took another piece of parchment from his stack and quickly jotted down the words he needed. Folding the paper carefully into the shape of a butterfly, he cupped the message in his hands. Summoning his spark, Stiles blew on the paper until it glowed ever so slightly. The paper butterfly flapped its wings experimentally and lifted off, fluttering into the night.

 _You’re right, as always, and a goddess. Thank you._ The words flitted about his mind as he blew out the remaining candles and fell asleep.

*****

The next morning Derek was overseeing the camp break down and the caravan train reform when he heard footsteps approach from behind. A soft smell of mourning lilies wafted on the breeze and Derek braced himself.

“Lady Lydia. How may I be of service?

“You could do better to behave like a prince and less like some asinine court jester.”

Derek glanced sideways to where the banshee, heir to the immensely wealthy coastal lands neighboring the Hale kingdom, stood stoically.

“Does this have to do with Stiles?”

“oh good, you're making progress already.” The sarcasm dripped from her perfectly painted lips.

“You came here to say something, so say it.”

“I spoke with him last night. I’ve never seen a soul so shredded. Do you hate him so much?”

“I’m trying to save him” 

“By using words to rip him apart?”

“If it saves him, gets him away from lands he's supposed to be banished from, yes.”

“Open your eyes! We’re losing him!”

Lydia breathed out through her nose, collecting herself. “Tell me Derek, in all the old stories, how is the Wizard character described.”

“Uh, bearded, tall, wealthy?”

“And do wealthy men eat well?”

“Yes?”

“Then why does Stiles look rail thin and so tired he might drop at any moment? He’s burning himself out and he’s doing it for you.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“It was never your decision to make. How you treat him however, the example you set for your men in how to treat him, _that_ is yours to control.” She looked away, over the tents and cookfires, her eyes distant.

“Did you know Erica punched him?” Lydia asked softly. Derek’s eyebrows raised. “Back at the palace. She saw him crossing a courtyard and punched him right in the jaw. He stopped arrows, Derek, I heard how not a single one could hit him when your guardsmen fired from the ramparts. He could have stopped her but he didn’t. He let her fist hit him and knock him flat on his back. Boyd pulled her away and Stiles just laid there until I helped him stand.” 

Lydia’s voice got lower, sadder, “He didn’t leave his chambers until the bruising was gone a week later when the caravan left for the peace summit. Imagine how the Hale faction would look if their impartial observer was seen with a nasty shiner - Stiles certainly did. I watched him write the missive to your mother that first night when the bruising was darkening. He asked me to proof an explanation, telling your mother how he was feeling ill and that he’d use his magic to observe the delegation’s discussions.” A single perfect tear slid down Lydia’s cheek. “He doesn’t have much left, Derek, save a pinch of hope and a whole lot of love for people who’d sooner hit him than hold him. Chastised where he should be cherished.”

“As much as I want him back, he committed treason!”

“And you never considered why loyal-to-a-fault Stiles would turn over vital secrets to the enemy?”

“To save a village!”

Lydia hummed noncommittally before adding coldly, “He’s my friend Prince Commander, and better than most though he’d never see it himself. I’ve no doubt you still care for him too. If anything happens to him, I’m holding you personally responsible.” There was such finality in her tone that Derek didn’t even think to try and stop her as she stalked away.

Derek watched the camp as it bustled around him, yet his mind was mulling the banshee’s words. Pushing Stiles away was supposed to make him safe from the kill order Derek had issued when he’d banished Stiles. _We’re losing him_ Lydia had said, as if Stiles wasn’t already out of Derek’s reach. 

The mage’s tired eyes from the night before flashed in Derek’s mind. The sharp edges of his cheekbones in the moonlight the only visible reminders of just how thin the form beneath maroon robes had become. In his mind’s eye, Derek could picture the purple and blue tones blooming across one delicate cheekbone, put there by the force of Erica’s fist.

Across the camp, Derek caught Scott’s gaze which carried such vehement hurt and judgement Derek felt his chest clench painfully. 

He needed to speak with his Seconds.

*****

The ambush began mere seconds after the wards came down. 

Stiles was beside Morrell as she used a copper dagger to slice through the symbol painted on the rowan tree. He felt the protective field lower with a rush of power as the energy he’d fed the shield poured back into him. He sighed, straightened, and heard the sound of glass breaking only meters away.

A purple miasma filled the air. Screams and roars cut through the cloud as the diplomatic party panicked.

“How fast can you get the shield back up?” Stiles shouted to Morrell over the din.

“I’d have to redraw the warding around the entire perimeter! You?”

“The area’s too large!” He could manage erecting a ward around a handful of wagons, but with the train ready to move out, the group was too far spread for his magic to cover.

“The cloud…” Morrell reached into her bag, searching through vials.

“Wolfbane. It’ll kill all the shifters, unless…”

“We change it.” Morrell held up a vial of clear liquid. “I don’t have enough.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Stiles took the vial she held out and raced into the cloud, as close to the center of the caravan as possible in the panic and haze. Tripping over a few unconscious weres and some injured dignitaries, Stiles took cover next to a wagon from arrows being volleyed into the chaos. Clearing a space on the ground of leaf litter, Stiles placed the bottle on the ground and held his hands over it, thinking rapidly. 

Morrell had been right, there wasn’t enough in the vile to neutralize all of the wolfsbane… but maybe he could move it!

Stiles felt his hands grow warm and willed the contents of the bottle to energize. When the bottle was fit to burst, Stiles pulled the stopper off the vial and directed the vapor towards the wolfsbane polluting the air all around him.

Droplets of translucent rowen sap glommed onto the particles of wolfsbane and were forced upwards together with the help of Stiles’ spark. Upward they moved swiftly, farther and farther into the cool morning sky, high enough to become parts of clouds - diluted and spread far across the land. It wasn’t a clean or perfect fix by any means. Stiles said a quick prayer that he hadn't accidentally poisoned the water for shifter-kind all across the Hale lands.

As the purple miasma faded, Stiles could see the smoke screen was a cover for the battle waging around him. Human Hale allied fighters were squaring off with a fierce group wearing argent colors emblazoned across their leather cuirasses. 

Summoning sparking blue flames to his fingertips, Stiles joined the fray just as a chorus of howls rang out.

*****

Derek felt clean air flood into his lungs as the wolfsbane cleared, his strength returning with each clean breath. Eyes gleaming red, Derek let loose a howl, galvanizing his troops to redouble their fight. 

He caught the scent of heat and ozone in the air, following it as he took down the Argent foes. Stiles was surrounded by five armed fighters yet seemed at ease, summoning streams of pale fire and whipping lightning at the crowd. The men charged at once and fell in unison.

“Derek! What’s going on?” Stiles called, approaching Derek as he dispatched yet another enemy soldier.

“Argents!” Derek growled around his fangs.

“I saw their colors, but King Argent asked the Emissaries' Citadel for peace talks. These can’t be Chris’ men.”

A familiar scent struck Derek and he felt his control waver, “Kate!”

Stiles nodded and bent down beside a wagon, mumbling to himself as his hands moved rapidly. Derek was itching to sprint off after Kate, but Stiles was deep in some spell, oblivious to the battle raging around him. Derek took up a defensive position and guarded the mage until he heard Stiles stand.

“This way. She’s in the woods, five meters into the treeline on the North ridge.”

Derek took off and tugged at his link with his Seconds, pulling them to follow him there.

Erica was his fastest Second, but Isaac was closest. Having caught Kate’s scent he signaled his pursuit with an excited cry and took off after Kate into the woods. Kate’s soldiers, the few that remained, retreated into the shadows of the forest. Derek ignored them. Kate was their leader, the force of hate and source of intelligence capable of pulling together such an attack. Kate was the only true target. 

Derek arrived just in time to see Kate doge Isaac’s attacks. Whipping out a stiletto blade, she deftly swept the knife towards the teenager, leaving one thin deep slice in Isaac’s side. The young man screamed in agony before dropping gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Kate kicked his Second straight into Derek as she made her escape.

Scott, Boyd, and Erica arrived together as Derek clutched Isaac to himself.

“Boyd and Erica, follow her trail but be careful. Her blades might be poisoned. If you can take her, do it, but no unnecessary risks.” A brief nod and they were gone.

Scott knelt beside Derek “Is he…?”

“He’s alive. A cut on his side. Deep. You have medical training?”

Scott swallowed and nodded. “We need to get him back to the caravan. This isn’t just a cut Derek, he’s not healing.”

Stiles stumbled into the clearing as Scott was moving Isaac’s shirt to get a close look at the wound.

“Stop! Scott stop.”

Derek growled as Stiles approached.

“Easy Sourwolf. Kate’s partial to a concentrated form of wolfsbane. You or Scott touch it and you die too.”

“ _Acontium ruinium_. We stopped the Argents from making it during the war.” Scott whispered, his eyes wide.

“Knowing Kate, She'd have had her own stache.”

Derek carefully scooped Isaac up. “Come with me.”

Stiles and Scott followed after Derek.

“Derek, if this is _A. ruinium_ , we don’t have an antidote for it. That variety of wolfsbane only grows in Argent territory. If we send a rider, maybe King Chris-”

Derek wheeled on Stiles, his eyes red and fierce, “No time!”

They came to a quickly constructed medical tent Morrell was managing, injured human diplomats and soldiers being tended while werewolves and battered soldiers stood guard.

Morrell raced over and lead them to an empty cot.

“Prince commander, we’ll take it from here.” She said softly yet firm.

“Don’t let him die.” Derek ground out around a set of fangs.

Feeling the urge to shift beneath his shoulders, Derek left the tent. His wolf-skin formed around him and he took off into the woods after the trail Erica and Boyd were following.

*****

Derek and his two Seconds returned muddy and disheveled as the moon was rising. Scott was sitting at the edge of the warding waiting for them.

“Did you…” Scott trailed off as he let them in; their faces told him all he needed to know. Kate had escaped.

“Isaac?” Erica asked.

“Stiles and Morrell are with him but… There isn’t much they can do without the right plant.”

Derek silently strode past Scott towards the medical tent. Inside, Derek found the mage sitting beside Isaac’s cot, reading a large tome by candlelight. The young werewolf was curled up on the bed sweating and whimpering softly. Erica rushed over and took a damp cloth to Isaac’s forehead.

“What have you found?” Derek demanded.

Stiles looked up owlishly from the small print on the pages before him then looking away with a sigh. 

“We cleaned the wound the best we could but with the wolfsbane there isn’t much we can do. You didn’t happen to get the blade off her or a convenient pouch of suspicious plant matter?”

Derek snarled and tossed over an unoccupied cot.

“That’s a no.” Stiles tapped his fingers quickly against the edges of the book. “This isn’t a slow acting poison but if we send a fast rider the Argents might-”

Boyd set a hand on Erica’s shoulder, “Unlikely. We had a spy in the war, told us about this kind of wolfsbane and we sent a small group to burn the stockpile, research facility, everything. From what our group found, it was a pretty small operation. Kate’s pet project with Gerard’s blessing. I’m not sure Chris even knew about it.”

Scott watched Derek’s back cautiously, “Maybe we could go back out, track her down. If she’s the only way to save him…”

Derek turned to face the group gathered with a troubling calm. “I’d like to speak to Stiles. Privately.” 

The three conscious Seconds glanced at one another uneasily before standing and exiting the tent.

Moving so that he could sit beside Isaac, Derek looked over at Stiles from across the cot.

“He was the first I turned. My first Second. I found him after a sparring practice hiding in a stable loft. He had more bruises than a fighter of his skill could have earned and I could smell the fear on him. I turned him to save him from Lord Lahey's abuse, to keep him close, keep him safe.” Derek reached out and took one of Stiles’ hands.

“I was supposed to keep him safe but I dragged him through a war and… and to this. You walked away - that was your choice and I watched you go. But Isaac… Don’t make me lose another packmate. You said you wanted to come back, that you missed us - missed me. Prove it. Save him and prove it. I'll write the royal pardon myself, just please, Stiles. Please save him.” Derek let his eyes flicker once a bright illuminating red, squeezing Stiles’ hand. He stood, looked over Isaac’s pained form once more before leaving the tent with dignified strides.

He came running back an hour later as Isaac’s cries and Lydia’s solom scream tore through the evening air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave kudos and/or feedback in the comments. Thank you for keeping me motivated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The peace summit approaches and everyone's got bigger problems...

Tearing open the flaps of the medical tent, Derek raced to Isaac’s bedside. Morrell was doing her best to hold down a fully wolfed-out Isaac as he thrashed and cried out on his bed. 

“No! You have to send me back! Send me back!” Isaac screamed, his claws coming dangerously close to Morrell’s face.

Derek strode forward and took her place, holding the delirious young man down.

“Isaac, you’re safe. Look at me, you’re safe.”

Frantic, Isaac looked up at Derek, his eyes fever bright, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Derek? Derek! You have to send me back, please!”

The younger man tried again to rise from the bed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. 

“ _Stop_.” Derek put a hint of Alpha into his voice, “Isaac, you were injured, but you’re going to be alright.”

“Derek please! I can’t leave him there!”

“You’re not making sense, Isaac, where do you need to go? Who is there?”

“Stiles!” Isaac moaned and folded into Derek’s side, crying inconsolably. Derek looked up to see his other Seconds had gathered. Erica was staring wide eyed at Isaac. Boyd had his hand on her arm in support as he looked down at Scott. Scott was kneeling awkwardly on the ground, clutching to his chest a maroon sheet.

 _Not a sheet. Stiles_. 

The mage was limp in Scott’s arms. Derek listened for a heartbeat and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard it, slow but even.

“He did it.” Erica breathed, glancing from Isaac on the bed down towards Stiles, “He stopped the wolfsbane.”

“How?” Boyd asked quietly, Derek saw his fingers tighten around Erica’s arm. She raised a hand to brush his fingers gently.

Morrell pushed her hair back behind her ear and walked towards Scott. 

“That’s what I would like to know. It should have been impossible. Even the most skilled healers at the Emissaries' Citadel would not be able to combat a poison so potent without a sample to work with, and Stiles was far from a proficient healer. His magic is not naturally suited for the healing arts.”

Derek felt a pang of guilt as he gazed down at the motionless figure in Scott’s arms. He hadn’t thought to ask if Stiles had studied healing… He’d assumed-

“He took my place. You have to send me back!” Isaac cut in desperately, pulling away from Derek and attempting to stand on the other side of the cot.

Morrell grew suddenly very still and placed her hand on Isaac’s shoulder, digging her nails in and forcing him back down. Derek prepared himself to defend Isaac if necessary, his wolf unsettled and intent on defending his pack.

“You were at your Judging?” Morrell asked softly. Isaac nodded with a whimper.

“And Stiles appeared?” Isaac bobbed his head again and tears sprung up anew.

Morrell rose with a grim expression. “Scott, can you bring Stiles this way, I’ll prepare another cot.” 

Scott rose quickly, his friend held gingerly in his arms. Derek couldn’t take his eyes away from where the deep red robes hung limp off the emissary’s bony frame. He really was too thin.

As they left, Erica and Boyd settled onto Isaac’s cot, somehow all three fitting on the slim canvas, sandwiching Isaac between them. 

“Go check on Stiles.” Boyd suggested softly, reading the desire in Derek’s eyes, “We’ll look after Isaac.”

Derek nodded and ran a hand once through Isaac’s hair as the young man cried more quietly, his packmates clutching him close.

Scott was just tucking a heavy quilt around Stiles when Derek arrived. Derek moved to help, stuffing the blanket tight against Stiles’ sides. For a moment, Derek’s hand brushed against Stiles’ and he snapped his hand back at the touch. Stiles’ skin was like ice.

“What’s wrong with him?” Derek asked in quiet horror.

“Medically? Nothing.” Morrell responded shortly.

“Then why is he like this?” Derek asked her gruffly.

Scott intervened, laying a hand on Derek’s own hand hesitantly. “I'm not sure. Maybe something to do with his spark. He got cold like this once before. Remember I told you about the night I was turned? Stiles used up his magic until there was almost nothing left. Without his Spark to warm him, his skin felt chilled.”

Morrell laid her hand over Stiles’ heart and shook her head. “I’m not sure it’s that simple.”

Lydia burst frantic into the tent. “No, no, no, no!” She muttered under her breath. “What happened!? Where’s Stiles!?”

Scott gestured awkwardly to the mage laying on the cot. “Here?” 

Lydia looked at the unconscious form and sat by his shoulder. “I wish he were.”

Derek took a step towards her, questions burning on his tongue, but Morrell spoke first.

“Lady Martin, what can you tell us?”

“He’s empty.” Lydia whispered, running shaking fingers through Stiles' hair. “I felt him go.” She held up a crumpled sheet of parchment. “He made it yesterday, a butterfly. It unfolded and he was gone.”

“Did you scream?” Morrell asked gently.

Lydia nodded her head, “Yes, I’ve felt it coming on for weeks. Every time I look at him it’s like he’s had a foot in the grave.”

Morrell sighed and brushed her hair out of her face again.

Derek glanced over at Scott who seemed equally lost before asking in as level a voice as he could manage, “Morrell, could you please explain what happened to Stiles.”

The Hale mage took a slow breath and looked Derek in the eye steadily, “There are rumors of ancient magics discussed only at a whisper in the dark halls of the Emissaries' Citadel. Meddling with Luck or Fate is foolish, but forcing the hands of the gods is something entirely different.” Morrell looked at Stiles’ face assessingly, “Although I hadn't thought it possible, that is what I believe Master Stiles has attempted.”

Scott suddenly gripped Derek’s hand hard. _Anchoring himself_ , Derek realized.

“He traded his life for Isaac's.” Scott proclaimed, choking on the words.

Morrell drew her gaze away from Stiles and looked calmly over to Scott. “In a way. He certainly sacrificed himself. What do you know of the Judging?”

“When we die, the gods hold tribunal and find souls worthy or lacking.” Scott started hesitantly.

Lydia nodded before adding, “From there each religion seems to have it’s own understanding of what comes next, whether it be a paradise for the worthy, rebirth into a better life, an eternity of serving the gods. The southern mountain kingdoms believe those found worthy transform into invisible guardians to protect the next generation.”

“Indeed,” Morrell confirmed, “the outcomes of the judging are varied, yet anyone you meet will agree, the Judging must occur as a person dies.”

“Isaac, he wanted to go back. He was at his Judging?” Derek’s heart stuttered at the thought.

Morrell inclined her head towards Derek, “He was close to death. The poison was extremely potent and he grew weaker faster than we anticipated.” 

“And Stiles took his place? Stiles is being judged right now?!” Scott’s voice rose an octave and he let go of Derek’s hand to take that of his unconscious friend.

“How is that even possible?” Derek stared at the young man who appeared to be asleep, not facing deities who dictate their very existence.

“As I said, old magic, ancient and forbidden to be taught. How Stiles came across such a powerful rite is beyond me. However, I did hear he caused his tutors endless trouble while he learned our craft.”

“That sounds like Stiles.” Scott muttered with a watery smile.

Derek clenched his fists at his sides. “So now what? We wait for Stiles to die?” 

_Wait for Lydia to scream as Stiles is lost to us forever?_

“Not necessarily.” All eyes - save Stiles' - snapped to Morrell. “There is a myth we tell young initiates at the Emissaries' Citadel, it's more of a children's tale really. In the story, taking the Judging of another is considered so selfless an act that the gods responded with mercy. According to the myth, should his soul be deemed worthy, Stiles will - theoretically - wake unharmed.”

Scott breathed a relieved sob while Lydia looked over Stiles’ face with hope brimming in her eyes. Derek, however, realized there was an unhappy alternative.

“And if he is found unworthy?” Stiles, the rash and loud young man who technically committed treason - could he really be so lucky to be found worthy?

Morrell’s expression was somber. “If he is found lacking, the myth warns his body will die and his spirit will go where all the unworthy go, wherever that may be.”

A somber weight settled in the tent before Morrell continued. 

“There is more. The old texts state that a soul can only be Judged once. Even if Stiles is worthy and sent back, when he dies his soul will be trapped, unable to be tried by the gods a second time. If he lives, Stiles still faces an eternity of time caught between planes and belonging to none.”

As Morrell’s words sunk in, Derek realized the consequences, the enormity of the past few hours. He had pressured and tried to bribe Stiles to save Isaac, a feat Morrell had said was beyond even healers far outstripping Stiles’ ability. Stiles had turned to the one force more powerful than emissary magic and wagered his very existence on a chance the gods might be merciful. 

He’d done it because Derek had asked.

 _And that right there,_ Derek thought as he left the medical tent, _might be the very worst part._

*****

The world around Stiles was everything yet nothing. An impossible balance of oppressively loud yet utterly silent, of colorful yet dull, of excitement thrumming through his veins just as apathetic numbness poured over him. Everything yet nothing. In one instant he knew nothing - not his name, his memories, his own face in the mirror - the next he knew everything so profoundly his head nearly burst from the breadth of it all.

It was all he could do to keep from screaming as he had the uncanny feeling of drowning in thirst and blindly seeing.

“It is because you are living while in death.” A soft voice reached his ears and he gasped as breaths came more easily. His mind grew clear as well.

“This isn’t how everyone feels when they die?” Stiles choked out between pants as he lay curled up on the ground.

“No, usually this is the peaceful part. An all encompassing feeling of belonging. ‘The Arrival’ we call it. You don't belong here though, you're just here in the place of one who nearly did."

" _Nearly_? Is Isaac okay?"

"Your friend lives, as was your intent and our will."

“Are you one of the gods?”

The girl - a young woman really - with long black hair that lay in elegant curls across her shoulders laughed brightly, then covered her mouth with a shy glance towards him.

“Something like that. I’m Kira” She smiled and held out her hand to him. “You came to be Judged, right?” 

Stiles took her hand and hauled himself to his feet, “I suppose I can’t ask for a rain check?”

“Not how the rules work I’m afraid.” the god, Kira, actually sounded regretful. _Can gods regret?_ Stiles was beyond baffled.

“Then yeah, I’m here to be Judged.”

Looking around as the scenery finally decided to take on a single form, Stiles' jaw dropped when he recognized the sight of the giant tree stump from back home on the Hill sitting only a few meters ahead of him.

“A Nematon, interesting choice. I guess its as good a place as any to be Judged.” Kira looked approvingly over at Stiles. They walked together to the Nematon and Kira gestured for Stiles to sit in the center of the stump, where the tree rings were smallest. She then perched herself up on the edge of the stump and settled in quietly.

“So, what now? We wait for the other gods to show up or something?”

Kira shrugged in a rather ungodlike manner, “We wait.” She looked content to wait patiently for an eon or longer. Perhaps she was.

Stiles sat as still and dignified as he could, fighting the urge to fidget with the hem of his robe or sing a melody he’d learned to help him remember the names of healing herbs. He briefly considered praying but decided that would be too little, too late. Being Judged meant examining his lived life. The time to garner favor with his Jury had passed.

Idly tracing the smallest tree rings circling beneath him, Stiles found himself remembering the day he met Scott. Looking up, he nearly jumped back. The memory was projected all around them, as if watching actors play a scene - every action, word, and minute detail a perfect copy of his remembered past plus so many insignificant-seeming features he'd long forgotten.

“Did you know? That was the first time you changed your True Name?” Kira looked over at him.

“Really?” Stiles smiled at the memory, watching a pint-sized version of himself walk beside a six-year-old projection of Scott.

“You were simply a _Beloved Son_ before that day. Meeting Scott, you changed your name to _Servant of the Great_.”

“Servant?” Stiles laughed, “I didn’t do that very well did I? Definitely got him into more trouble than a good servant to a future Beacon should.”

Kira hummed, “Servant could mean many things. Your father serves the current Beacon?”

“Beacon Melissa? Yeah, I guess. He’s been Captain of the Guard almost my entire life.”

“How does he serve?”

“Uh, keeps her and everyone else safe. He councils her when she asks, but not in any official capacity.”

“And you do the same for Scott?”

Stiles’ hand touched the next set of concentric circles, the memories of the night Scott was turned flashed all around him, making his heart race and his Spark heat him from inside. 

“I try.” He sighs.

Kira hummed again, “You try.” She pointed to another larger tree ring mere centimeters from Stiles’ fingers. “What about that one?”

Stiles reached out to tap it, the scene changed to the night he’d saved Derek’s life. He watched as Kate endeavored to start a war, her form slipping away as he tried to keep poison away from Derek’s heart.

“I tried to stop Kate. Started a war instead.”

“You saved Derek.” 

Sitles shrugged, touching the next few lines where he showed Kira scenes from the first year of the war. 

“I killed people too.” He said softly as visions of battles swirled around the room.

Kira made her indifferent hum again before saying simply, “You did.” 

“War was hell.” Stiles couldn’t believe how much he’d forgotten about the war, fighting beside Scott, magic flames coating his hands. He only engaged when he had to, sending a fireball at the Argent troops who aimed arrows or broadswords at Scott’s back. The fire was often too large, too hot, and hungry. Fueled by Stiles’ anger, it was insatiable as it ate away at Argent flesh. Untrained and unrestrained, Stiles’ magic killed just as many as Scott’s sword or claws.

“It was.” Kira responded, “But you made something beautiful as well.” Kira’s hand passed over a pale thick band in the tree rings and the night following the fort siege appeared before them, the ley line accepting the sacrifices of the dead and purifying the battlefield at Stiles’ insistence. Stiles smiled softly at the memory, watching past-Derek’s fingers threaded through his own.

“And these?” She asked, pointing to the next set of tree rings, a thick series circling close together.

Stiles sighed. He knew what he’d find there. Mistake after mistake - the kinds he couldn’t afford to regret or risk ruining everything he had made the sacrifices for. 

Instead of touching those rings he asked, “Maybe you could call the other gods or something? Not that this trip down memory lane isn’t just fascinating, but I’d really like to get this show on the road.” Stiles paused then added, “Sorry, not meaning to be rude, your godliness, Kira, ma’am, no offense or anything.”

“None taken.” Kira smiled genially. “You’ll be Judged soon enough. Plenty of time though.” She gestured at the tightly packed lines again and asked, “Do you not like those memories?”

“Not particularly.” Stiles sighed and breathed deeply before he reached out, slapping the tips of his fingers flat against the Nematon’s smooth surface. 

Boyd in the tent, arguing with Derek, sneaking away with the command documents, trading them to the Argents, leading the refugees through the woods, facing Derek, betrayal and banishment.

Kira gasped as she saw what he’d done and she turned to him, “Why Stiles?” She asked him simply but he could tell her question held so much more.

_Why did you betray them? Why did you lie? Why would the Servant willingly become the Betrayer?_

“Told you I was a bad servant, didn’t I?” Stiles tried for humor.

Kira didn’t seem to get it though when she shook her head, “But that’s not it! You did this-” She gestured to the scenes surrounding them, “to serve, but why?”

"I-... I can't say."

"Then show me." Kira scooted closer, her shoulders nearly touching his, her presence calming. 

Hand shaking, Stiles slowly reached out to tap the tree ring he could _feel_ would explain the necessity of his actions.

The scene before them warped and shifted to reveal the command tent in low lighting. Stiles sat and waited with dread for what he knew they were about to see. A vision of Scott entered the tent hours after Derek and Stiles had faught over saving Boyd's village. He had a sightless-glazed look in his eyes as he moved directly to the map table and removed a handful of scrolls from the pile. A specter of Stiles, an actor replaying the worst night of Stiles' life, moved from a shadowy corner where he’d been watching, waiting, testing a theory he’d prayed wasn’t correct. Stiles watched his memory-figment-self gently removing the maps from Scott’s hands, his lips moving in a silent promise made to his dazed best friend.

“I uh… I told him I’d fix things. I took the maps to the Argent’s instead that night… I wasn't just saving the people of Fernridge.” Stiles explained to Kira, his eyes watching as the memory projection began to fade.

Swallowing hard before continuing, Stiles spoke a truth he'd carried all alone for two long years, “Kate Argent… She’s this crazy bitch… uh evil lady- noble woman princess person... Anyway she knew … well I’m pretty sure it was her, she knew Scott’s true name. She was controlling him. If he’d been found out… the Hill would have been forced out of the Allied Hale forces, the Argent empire would consume our lands and destroy our culture. Thousands of people would have died and Scott… He would have been killed, executed - or possibly banished like me I guess - for treason. I needed a way to change his name, break Kate’s hold over him. I did this- all this to save him.”

“And you chose grief to force his name to change.” Kira’s eyes were wide with shock and her lips parted in a frown, scandalized. “Stiles do you know the purpose for True names? Why every mortal spirit has a title?”

“Magic?” Stiles guessed.

Kira shook her head, “It’s more than magic. Names help keep the balance, they help organize the universe. For every fish there is a fisher and for every prey a predator.”

“Let me guess, a servant for every lord.” Stiles added wryly.

“And a worshiper for every god.” Kira added with a smirk, causing a smile to tug at Stiles’ lips.

“So when I tried to change Scott’s name…”

“You changed how the _universe_ is ordered. The balance needed to be reasserted.” Kira confirmed gravely.

“Lydia said my name changed to be _Loyal Betrayer_.”

Kira nodded, “She is correct. Yet in your actions, you change more than just one name to contain the identity of _Betrayed_. Too many hearts broken to balance your own loss.”

Stiles felt his stomach twist and sink. How many times had Deaton warned him about messing with powerful magic! Little had he known, Stiles was well acquainted with screwing up the natural order. 

“I guess that’s why I can’t seem to fix things with Derek and I can’t even to look Scott in the eye. Why Erica wants to punch me every time she sees me.”

Kira hummed while stroking the rings of the Nematon, “By their true names, the core of their beings and their place within all existence, I can tell that those paired with you are still the _Betrayed_.”

“So I could fix it? I mean, hypothetically, if I changed all our names again it would fix everything.” 

Kira looked up from the rings to where Stiles was keen to not meet her eyes. 

“You would upset the balance once more?” She asked, her tone impossible to read.

Stiles tapped his fingers against the concentric circles, watching as the scenes around them started over and shift with each nervous tap.

“That’s kind of how this works though, right? If I get to go back and, if I’m careful, maybe I can fix everything?”

“You know the rules.” Kira said simply.

“‘You can only be Judged once.’” Stiles quoted aloud the warning written on an ancient scroll he’d found in a back corner of the Citadel’s library where light shied away and only the absolutely desperate or dangerously curious ventured. The ancient scroll that taught him how to trade his Judgement for another’s. 

Kira hummed and brushed a curl back. 

“And that’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re Judging me now?”

At his words, Kira’s soft smile bent into a smirk that felt a bit too sharp to be friendly. Her eyes held a clever gleam from the rush of her deception being found out.

 _Almost fox like_ , Stiles’ mind provided.

“Indeed, you are being Judged," the goddess spoke in a voice that echoed as a flash of lightning crackled above them, "and we’re nearly done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is so very loved and appreciated!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Derek looks inward and Stiles is Judged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a **PSA** , this chapter depicts people giving nourishment via mouth to a coma patient. This is not something you should EVER do in the real world! Giving anything to a patient in a coma is extremely dangerous as they are liable to choke/drown on what you give them; their windpipe (aka a direct path to the lungs which really don't like water!) is open on reflex. My characters do not have the benefit of modern medicine nor swallowing specialist, they are doing the best they can. Aaand I used a bit of artistic license to get by. Please don't be like my characters! Please do right by any comatose patients in your life and let the professionals handle their food and water intake. Thanks!
> 
> Story wise, there's another smallish time jump, please let me know if it's hard to figure out the timeline and I'll make the passage of time more explicit. Thanks!

Derek rode down the caravan column, drawing his horse to slow as he approached Scott’s mount. 

“We’ve nearly arrived.” Derek said softly, not wanting to startle his Second who appeared deep in thought.

“Good. Maybe Master Deaton will be able to help.” Scott sighed, his posture was tight; he held the reigns with white knuckles.

“There’s no change?” Derek glanced to Lady Lydia’s wagon and back to Scott who merely shook his head.

“Two weeks, Derek. He’s been out for two weeks. How long does Judging take?” Scott sounded closer to tears than Derek was comfortable with.

“Scott… I think we may need to consider that he might not-”

“No. You don't get to say it. I get that you’ve got some beef with Stiles and you’re probably happy to have him out of the picture-”

“That’s _NOT_ what I’m saying-”

“-but I lost him once and I refuse to believe the gods will find him lacking.”

After a heated pause, Derek exhaled and asked quietly, “How can you be so sure?”

Scott pulled his reigns short, stopping his horse and Derek followed suit as the caravan moved on around them. 

“How can you not?” Scott asked utterly shocked.

“He’s betrayed us all before!”

“You just really can’t let that go can you?” Scott raised his eyebrows and coaxed his horse to begin walking again, his eyes fixed on the back of Lydia’s carriage.

“Sure, Stiles was a bonehead for like two nights and got himself banished. In case you forgot, he also saved your life from Kate the night you met and more than a few times on the battlefield. Now he’s back as a badass emissary to help us end the war _and_ he put his eternity on the line to save Isaac’s life. That’s like one betrayal compared to like at least ten successful moments of life saving!"

Scott paused and looked directly at Derek, “The whole big bad betrayal thing sucked, but, it's like you said when he was banished, He’s Stiles.” 

_He’s Stiles_ , Derek thought, remembering a time when he felt that could explain everything. _When did that change? When did I change?_

Scott’s sigh stirred Derek from his thoughts. The Second’s focus was back on the carriage with Stiles inside and Derek allowed his eyes to follow suit. 

“He knew about the wolfsbane?” Scott’s voice was pitched low so only Derek could pick out his words.

“What?”

“Kate’s wolfsbane. He knew Kate had a special blend.”

“Boyd told him in the med tent.”

“No,” Scott shook his head once sharply. “When I was about to touch Isaac’s wound for a field dressing, Stiles came just in time, told me to stop. If I had touched the _Acontium ruinium_ I would have been poisoned too.”

“How could he…?”

Scott gave a stiff shrug, “I’m not sure…but part of me wonders if banishment actually kept Stiles out of the war.”

Derek felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced over to see Scott looking at him full of concern. “You should go see him, man. Sit with him a while. The two of you were close in that first year. Maybe this is the time to tell him how you feel.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Derek scoffed before continuing in response to Scott raised an eyebrow, “He’s unconscious, he can’t hear anything.”

“That’s the perfect time to talk to Stiles! He can’t talk over you!” Scott’s laugh was too fragile to be mirthful as he rode forward to where he could check in with guardsman Dunbar and get a supplies report.

Derek watched him go, then felt his gaze gravitate back to the Lady Lydia’s carriage where she was keeping Stiles as comfortable as possible while they continued to travel towards the neutral grounds of the Wizards. 

Derek recalled the first time he’d met Stiles, dancing freely with the younger man on the ballroom floor, later waking up to find a magically-burnt out Stiles passed out on his chest after Kate’s assassination attempt, then bearing his soul to Stiles in the infirmary when he thought the mage was asleep. 

Dismounting, Derek handed his reigns to the nearest guardsman and knocked on the carriage door. Lady Lydia’s voice invited him in. 

“I assume we are getting close, Prince Commander?” She asked softly, slowly wringing a wet cloth over Stiles’ slightly open mouth.

“We should reach the border by dusk at the very earliest, or just after dawn tomorrow if we need to make camp tonight.”

“Good. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll last.” She dipped the cloth into the bowl once more.

“May I?” Derek extended his hand for the bowl.

“Clean your hands first.” Lady Lydia spoke just above a whisper yet she lost none of her command.

Derek took the washing basin Lydia handed him and scrubbed his rough hands thoroughly. Picking up the bowl with the cloth, Derek noted the liquid was a sickly shade of yellow.

Catching sight of his grimace, Lydia explained, “It’s a broth, or so Morrell tells me. She said it would sustain him for at least a week.”

“And he’s headed into his third.” Derek realized grimly.

“That and he was thin to begin with. I’m afraid if he stays away much longer he won’t have much of a body to come back to.”

 _Stays away._ Lydia had started saying this so often that his Seconds had picked up the phrasing. They made it sound like Stiles’ cold unconscious body wasn’t missing a soul. Like he would ride up any moment alive and warm and smiling. Like the Stiles they all knew before the banishment would suddenly appear and apologize for not writing more often about his travels.

Derek shook off these thoughts as he accepted the bowl of broth.

“Morrell sent word ahead?” Derek twisted the cloth slowly over Stiles’ mouth, allowing the liquid to drip in at a slow steady rate. Every so often he saw Stiles swallow on reflex.

“Master Deaton is making preparations. The Wizards are protective of their own and Stiles certainly has a way of inspiring loyalty.”

Derek was surprised when a huff of laughter left his lips, “I suppose he does.”

The Lady Lydia, too smart for words, gathered her skirts and excused herself from the carriage, saying only, “Take care not to drown him,” before shutting the carriage door.

Derek sighed and dipped the cloth back into the bowl of chartreuse potion. 

“What do you inspire in me?” He whispered to the mage’s still form. “I trusted you Stiles. After Kate isolated me and the war started, I had to lead all these strangers. I didn’t know who I could turn to. You were always there, and you read me like an open book. The others, they only see their Prince Commander, a man to be respected and obeyed. Even my Seconds, they’ll challenge my strategy from time to time but their wolf compels them to listen. Stiles, you were different from that first dance... you shook my hand and I... I knew...” 

Derek brought up a hand to gently brushed back some tangled hair from Stiles’ forehead. “I sent you away to save you because I don’t think I can live knowing you’re not here somewhere in the vast world. It’s… I can’t have you in danger. I can’t. When I wanted you to save Isaac… I never wanted this. He’s my responsibility, I have to keep him safe. But you… I know if you leave me again, like this… It will be like banishing you all over and over again. Everyday, forever.”

Feeling his eyes burn, Derek clenched his eyelids and tightened his jaw. “Come back. Please Stiles, come back and give me an excuse to pardon you. Let me bring you home. I need you to wake up. I… I need you.”

The bowl was empty and the cloth all wrung out. Derek couldn’t help feeling emptied and emotionally wrung out himself. In the fading light, Derek watched the shadows grow across Stiles’ face but saw no sign of movement beyond shallow uneven breaths. Sighing, Derek gathered the dishes and reached for the door as he heard a piercing shriek from outside.

 _Lydia!_ Derek realized. The wail of a banshee heralding death.

*****

“Indeed, you are being judged and we’re nearly done.” Kira pointed at the next set of circles on the Nematon’s surface, her fingernails like claws. “You broke an ancient tradition of neutrality to tip the events of the war in favor of your friends.” She accused, her finger pressing to the correct line and memories of writing _Informant_ letters spun dizzily around them. Kira stood and walked towards the Nematon's edge, then kneeling briefly to jab the next few circles in quick succession.

“Against your Master’s wishes, you pursued forbidden knowledge with the intent to use it for personal gain. You returned to lands you were banished from in order to maneuver your way back into the good graces of those you’d betrayed. Betrayed, specifically, by forcibly changing their place and identity within the balance of all things. You admit that if we find you worthy and send you back to your living world, you intend to disrupt the balance of the universe once again. Do you deny these accusations?”

Stiles watched each scene unfold just as she had described. “No, I do not deny them.”

“Then why should we send you back? What makes you _worthy_?” Her gaze was steel and her words cut as a katana materialized in her hand, lightning snapping along the blade.

Stiles stood and walked towards where she now perched on the very edge of the Nematon.

“What I’ve done, I did out of loyalty and pure intent. While my name changed, that fact did not. A good servant is loyal and my new name, the one I shifted the balance to get, it’s not just _Betrayer,_ it’s _Loyal Betrayer_. While - as you explained - every betrayer has it’s betrayed, those who are loyal have people and causes they are loyal to.” 

Stiles sighed and faced Kira head on. “I do want to change my name, to make things right but that’s not because I feel guilty over being a _Betrayer_. I want to go back because I’m _Loyal_. If I return, that’s the part of me that will stay, the part that will fix what I broke and restore the balance.”

“What of your friends? If you fix the balance, their names may return to what they were. Scott may become Kate’s puppet once againl.” Kira warned.

“And even then, I’ll find another way to save him.”

“And what of Prince Derek? The one who has pushed you further away than the rest?”

Stiles looked away as Derek’s face filled the space around them. A hundred different pictures of the Prince Commander plucked from Stiles’ memories. “I think I might have broken him more than the rest - I’m not sure why - but I’m loyal to him too. I need to fix the balance… for him as much as for myself.”

Kira swept her katana through the air and laid the tip on the side of Stiles’ neck. Heat from the lightning warmed his skin and he faught the instinct to finch away.

“Stiles Stilinski, Master in the Emissaries' Citadel, _Loyal Betrayer,_ you have been Judged by your actions, words, and intentions.” Her voice boomed and filled the space, echoing in a thousand voices with the weight of the gods. Light flooded the space around her, licking her skin and lifting her hair.

Stiles felt his heartbeat as the echos faded. In the spanse of a millennia and milliseconds, he anticipated his fate.

“We find you worthy of time. This time you will use to fix the imbalances you have created.”

She pulled the sword back from his neck and flipped it around so the blade swung out behind her where nine glowing tails flickered in and out of perception, themselves like lighting bolts. 

She then drew in close and whispered in Stiles’ ear, “Listen Stiles, your sacrifice for young Isaac has already set in motion repairs to the balance. You can fix the balance, of this I am certain and you have my support. Sorry I can’t give you more than that.” She took a half-step back and smiled apologetically. 

“Uh, thanks.” Stiles muttered. He was really being sent back?!

“But remember Stiles,” Kira’s eyes were sad, “Each soul can only be Judged once.”

“What happens the next time I die?”

“You sacrificed the Judging of _Loyal Betrayer_ for your friend - a selfless act performed by one possessing a worthy heart. This garners you a second chance. The next time… I cannot come to you. The _Loyal Betrayer_ will remain In Between, unjudgable and unchanging.”

Stiles heard her voice getting washed away and his surroundings flickering to once again become everything and nothing at once.

“What does that mean?!” he called back to her, straining to hear over the cacophonous ruckus with his deaf ears. The light was brightly dark and everything happened and happened and happened while absolutely nothing happened at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As a heads up, work is busy so my posting schedule may be less regular than it has been. Thanks for your patience!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summit at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for depictions of violence in a fight scene - includes stabbing, poisoning, swearing, and character death.

“He’s sleeping.” Master Deaton proclaimed to the worried bunch gathered. Having been in the neutral territories nearby, the master emissary had ridden to meet the stopped caravan in haste after hearing the banshee’s cry.

“Sleeping? He’s been out for nearly three weeks.” Isaac interjected.

“He’s been absent from his body for nearly three weeks. Now, he’s back.” Master Deaton clarified, or at least Derek thought that’s what the mage was trying to do.

“How do you know?” Erica asked, one eyebrow raised in skepticism.

“The Lady Lydia cries out when a soul crosses the veil, often from the land of the living to what lies beyond. In this case however, without another death to explain her scream, we must assume she sensed Stiles on the return journey.” Lydia shrugged, looking as lost as the others from beneath a heavy blanket Boyd had wrapped around her.

“I can feel him now. He’s back.” She said simply.

“Does this mean he’ll wake up soon?” Scott asked Master Deaton hopefully from Stiles’ bedside. 

“It is hard to say. He performed ancient magic and, as far as we know, bargained with gods. I am choosing to remain hopeful.”

Derek moved from his spot along the tent's edge to address the group. “I want someone to be with him every minute, in case he wakes up. Boyd, work out a schedule for us. Four hour shifts. Include myself and my Seconds.”

“And I.” Lydia cut in.

“And Lady Lydia.” Derek conceded smoothly. “We need to head out in the morning for the peace summit. Even while we’re there, he should have company.” 

The atmosphere of the tent held the bright feeling of hope, something Derek realized he’d missed in the weeks - maybe years - past.

“Master Deaton,” Lydia broke the silence.

“My Lady?”

“Will Stiles being… absent for a duration of our travel cause problems for the Allied Hale forces during the peace summit?”

All eyes turned to the master emissary. “These are extenuating circumstances and while Stiles’ situation is quite unprecedented, Master Morrell was of our Order once. Her oath to impartiality still stands even though she has been stationed with the Hales for some years. We have taken precautions over the past few weeks to ensure these talks would not be called off.”

A collective sigh of relief swept over the room.

With Stiles in the Master’s hands, Derek turned his focus to preparing for the summit. They would arrive before noon if the caravan was moving at dawn. Introductions and opening discussions would take place before the days end. Scott’s proposal was due as the moon rose in tomorrow's sky.

Derek glanced over to where his Second was clutching his best friend's hand, a goofy smile stretched across his face accentuating the young man's crooked jaw. Stiles was safe but the war wasn't over, not officially. Not yet.

“Scott…” the Second stiffened at Derek's voice, his hand wrapping incrementally tighter around Stiles’ limp one. Derek changed tactics.

“Scott and I need to speak.” His Seconds looked assessingly at Derek then Boyd nodded slowly. The large werewolf placed a gentle hand on Isaac’s shoulder and took Erica’s hand, leading them from the tent. Lady Lydia placed a chaste kiss on Stiles’ forehead and whispered what sounded to his enhanced hearing like “Welcome back”. As she rose, her eyes were daggers on Derek.

“I will be just outside. I expect to be informed when he wakes.” With that, the banshee exited the tent with an air of nobility that befitted her.

Master Deaton moved to the back of the tent, busying himself with rearranging medical equipment. “Forgive me Prince Derek, I assume your conversation involves Lord McCall’s statement for the Summit and thus you’ll need an impartial observer to be present. I assure you, you will hardly notice me.”

Sighing, Derek nodded and sat at Stiles’ bedside across from Scott whose eyes hadn't left Stiles’ face.

“Are you ready Scott?”

“I have the council approved statement memorized.”

“Good, that's… good.” Derek laid his fists on his knees. Why was this so hard? Talking to his Seconds used to he so easy! So many things had been.

“And you're… with Princess Allison you’re-”

“Derek I'm not going to blow this. It's our people’s future _and_ hers. Sure the responsibility is big and overwhelming but I'm ready.”

Strained silence filled the tent, occasionally being interrupted by Master Deaton’s shuffling deeper in the tent.

“You need to pardon him.” Scott’s eyes finally sought Derek's.

“I know.”

“You should have done it earlier.”

“... I know.”

“Why didn't you?” Scott’s frame was bent over Stiles’ still form, raptly watching the steady rise and fall of the mage’s chest.

“He confessed to treason. I did what I could to save him from a death sentence, but we're leaders Scott. I couldn't ignore the crime because he's my friend. The law applies to everyone no matter how much we love them?”

“That’s a pathetic safe answer and you know it! You pardoned scores of soldiers who did worse than him-”

“Those were different-”

“So he hurt you Derek, betrayed you. We all were and we got over it. This is _Stiles_.”

Derek sighed and rubbed his brow, “I can’t issue a pardon just because he’s _Stiles_.”

“He fought beside us, saved Isaac. The _gods_ found him worthy.” 

“Now I can pardon him. No one can question it or call it favoritism.”

“Good.” Scott's voice was hard, brittle even.

Derek was rising to leave when a soft moan rose from Stiles’ lips and Scott's focus became intent upon his friend.

“Stiles?”

“Don’ r’member this un.” The young man slurred after opening his eyes a sliver and letting them fall closed again.

Master Deaton appeared next to Scott, his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles, you are in a medical tent. Can you open your eyes for us?”

Derek would punch anyone who called him a coward, but as Stile roused the prince commander quietly took his leave. He had a royal pardon to draft. 

*****

The world came back like waves on the shore, consciousness rising forward and flowing back to darkness only to return again, pushing Stiles back towards awareness.

“-open your eyes for us?” the voice sounded like Master Deaton. Stiles was sure he'd heard Scott too, and maybe Derek. Was this another memory Kira was watching? Another ring of the Nemeton activated with a touch to judge Stiles’ choices? Stiles couldn't remember ever having those three men in a room with him...

 _We find you worthy._ Kira’s words floated to the surface of his memory.

Judged. He was Judged!

“was Juh'jed.”

“You were, and the gods sent you back.” That was Master Deaton again.

“You're back Stiles. You came back.” That voice shook.

“S’okay Scottie.” Stiles could feel a warm hand squeeze his and he twitched his fingers weakly in return.

“Yeah, you're okay,” Scott sounded a bit choked, like he was crying, “Everything's gonna be okay now.”

 _Then why're you crying, don't cry. I always make you cry._ Stiles’ thoughts came sluggishly.

“m’tired.” was all the young mage mumbled as a cool hand brushed over his hair.

“Then rest. All will be clear with time.”

As if on command, awareness ebbed once more dragging Stiles back under.

*****

Stiles woke slowly in warmth and comfort. He felt instinctively for his Spark as it twisted like veins of familiar fire coursing through his body. At his core he knew his pool of magic was full to the brim, like he hadn't used a flicker of it in ages. Odd. Last he recalled he'd been pushing his Spark to its limits, scrying the Argents, building wards, fighting off an ambush, and keeping Isaac alive.

 _Isaac_!

Stiles shot up from his cot and struggled against the tangle of blankets tucked around his legs.

“Woah! Easy there man!” Stiles looked to see a frantic Scott holding his arms up placatingly.

“Isaac? The poison- Is he…?” Stiles felt the tendrils of panic touch his heart.

Scott pulled Stiles into a tight hug. “He's fine Stiles. You save him. He's fine.”

“I… _I_ saved him?” Stiles leaned into Scott's embrace, “How? I'm shit at healing magic.”

“You don't… you traded places. You were Judged. You don't remember?”

Stiles shook his head. “I remember he was dying and then nothing.”

“But earlier you said… never mind, doesn't matter, you're both safe now and Derek's going to pardon you tomorrow night after I propose. The gods found you worthy so no one can stop us.”

Stiles’ head was spinning will all the implications of what Scott was saying. He'd been Judged and found worthy? Well that was a surprise - not that he wasn't grateful but he was kind of a massive fuck up so… 

“Wait, tomorrow?! The summit is _tomorrow_?! How long was I out?!”

“Like almost three weeks dude. Don't do that again man, please.”

“No comas, I can work with that.” Stiles offered his oldest friend a weak smile.

“The others really missed you. I'm sure they'll be by soon, if you're up for it.” Scott sounded tentative.

“Others?”

“Yeah, Isaac, Boyd, Erica. Even Derek sat with you a little while you were, you know, ‘away’.”

Well that was news. Suddenly, Stiles didn't feel like lying around waiting for a pack of wolves with a guilt complex to come slinking in.

“Any idea where everyone's at?”

“Not sure, but most of the caravan is at the campfire.”

Now that Scott had mentioned it, Stiles could hear the soft lilting tones of folk songs wafting on the evening breeze, a hint of wood smoke on the air.

Stiles made to stand only to have his legs go right out from under him.

“Dude! Slowly!” Scott caught him before he hit the ground and helped the mage resettle on the cot. “You haven't walked in over two weeks, take it slow, okay?”

“Okay.” Stiles sighed and with Scott's help they made their way carefully from the tent.

“I'm glad you're back.” Scott said softly as they walked towards what sounded like a trio singing some bawdy drinking song.

“Missed you too Scottie.” Stiles felt lighter than he had in years as Scott pulled him in closer against his side.

*****

The sound of respectful applause drew Derek’s attention to the caravan’s central campfire. Popping out of his tent he saw a weak-knee Stiles hanging off of Scott’s broad shoulders. Isaac rose from his spot on a log and approached Stiles swiftly, wrapping his lanky frame around the mage’s in an all encompassing hug. The clapping swelled louder, only trickling off when Isaac lead Stiles to the log. The others on the log shifted so that Stiles could sit beside Scott - who still had a hand on Stiles through all this, as if his friend would vanish if he lost contact - with Isaac and Erica settling on the ground at their feet.

Stiles looked tired and profoundly uncomfortable surrounded by the crowd. Derek felt a pang of sadness; Stiles belonged in the center, a pivot point of motion the rest of the world revolved around. _At least he had, before…_

Derek shook his head. He’d written the pardon, they were all letting bygones be bygones. It was time to heal.

Approaching quietly, Derek saw Isaac lean into Stiles’ knees and Scott hugging the mage close with an arm around his shoulder. Erica’s usually proud gaze held a bashful quality as she looked at Stiles. They both knew she would never apologize for hurting him, but this was her olive branch.

“How about a story?” Her voice was clear over the campfire crackle.

Stiles gave her a muted smile, “Which would you like to hear?”

“Tell us about the day you and Scott met.”

Scott groaned, “Come on Erica! Why do you have to dredge that one up?!”

“Because it’s my favorite and you’re an idiot.” She replied primly, a predatory edge to her grin.

Stiles glanced sidelong at Scott, “It _is_ her favorite.”

“Fine! Go ahead and tell all of the diplomats who I'll be in negotiations with one day on the Hill's behalf the embarrassing story where we-”

“Spoilers!” Erica and Stiles shouted in unison before glancing at the other and laughing brightly; tension drained from Stiles’ shoulders. Derek was surprised to feel himself relaxing as well. 

“Alright alright, if we’re doing this…” Scott sighed. “You start.

Stiles took a deep breath to collect his thoughts before speaking in a level voice which carried well across the group gathered.

The story was as scandalous as promised wherein the pint sized pair of six-year-olds “liberated” a performing monkey via a series of shenanigans including a stampede of village chickens, the loss of one noblewoman’s wig, and a Hill wide shortage of peanuts. 

By the end of the story, the mood of those gathered was elevated despite the looming summit. Stiles had worked the crowd with easy mastery while absentmindedly braiding Erica’s golden hair. He seemed more at ease than Derek could recall. During the war there was an ever present strain notable by the pinch at the corners of his eyes. Yet now, the young mage appeared wholly content to live in the moment. 

_Near death experiences will do that to a guy_ , Derek supposed.

When the story concluded to a brief round of applause and the audience relocated to their tents, Derek watched his Seconds surrounding Stiles, scenting him and murmuring in low voices Derek couldn’t hear over the distance. 

_This could work_. The thought rose warm and soft in him mind, curling around a desire he’d long set aside. _Stiles can come back to us_. Derek left the campfire, retreating to his tent and giving his Seconds the time they needed to reassure themselves Stiles was safe. 

In the dim lighting of his tent, Derek made out the dark ink on fine parchment set out to dry carefully on his desk. Tracing the letters of the royal pardon, Derek let himself live in the memories when Stiles burst into his tent without knocking, Stiles stealing his tea as an excuse to warm it up for Derek, Stiles weighing in on strategy with his signature snark. 

Stiles taking his hand and leading him onto a dance floor. Stiles had liked his smile back then. 

Derek felt his lips pull smoothly into a soft grin at the signed and sealed document.

_Stiles can come back._

Derek slept easy for the first time in years.

*****

For a peace summit with the capability to end a three year war and prevent future military campaigns, the whole event was shockingly dull. Stiles sighed heavily at the end of yet another speech, blowing a strand of his too-long hair from his face. He was sitting among the other master emissaries on a row of stone risers perpendicular to the seating for the Hale and Argent diplomats which flanked either side of the clearing. A raised dais sat in the center of the meeting space where a Hale diplomat - or was this one Argent?….They were all starting to blur together - was receiving a peal of polite applause. Stiles clapped along, his leg bouncing after hours of inactivity, and his mind wandered yet again over the events of the previous day - the highlight of course being Scott’s proposal.

The young Beacon-to-be was earnest in delivering his council-approved speech, laying out the demands of the Hale Allied Forces and ending it with a smile so sweet and charming Stiles could see half the spectators swooning where they sat. Princess Allison took the podium next with a smooth expression and for a moment Stiles felt his heart skip a beat. If the Argents did not accept the proposal the talks would become far nastier and potentially fall apart completely!

Her face an emotionless mask, Princess Allison diplomatically accepted the terms of the proposal while leaving some bargaining room for the lords of Argent. At times she looked directly at Scott as she clearly spoke the obviously scripted words that somehow felt natural in her delivery. Stiles got a sense of relief from the young woman. Undoubtedly, King Christopher had anticipated a marriage contract and poor Allison would be trapped in whichever marriage the Allied Hale Forces asked for. A broad smile spread across Stiles’ lips as he watched his best friend make doe eyes at his bride to be. The two of them would be just fine.

All of the following speeches were forgettable. Water rights this, grazing rights that. Reparations. Limits on military size. Reparations, reparations, reparations. Sudden accusation! Offended shouting! and the calm tones of Master Deaton interceding before the whole cycle began anew.

Stiles shifted restlessly on his hard stone seat. Bobbing his leg in a fast rhythm and rolling his shoulders, Stiles fought to remain composed as befitted his station among the master emissaries. _When is this going to be over?!_ He held back a groan at the thought. _Are they just stalling while the treaties are written in triplicate?_ A pale spark danced over his left fingertips. A smirk pulled at Stiles’ lips. _A little magic could speed the copying process up… I could ask Master Dea-_

“Next to the center,” Master Deaton spoke in a magically amplified voice which carried to all ends of the clearing and cut off Stiles’ train of thought, “Prince Derek of Hale.”

Stiles sat up straighter. Derek? From all the council discussions, Derek had never been asked to make a statement. In fact, Stiles clearly remembered Talia promising Derek he would not have to make any public statements at the summit. The mage’s fingers began to tap on his knee caps, his leg still bouncing furiously and his Spark restless inside him. _I was assigned to the Hales! I’m supposed to know about all their decisions!_ How could he be left out now? Was this a decision made while he was unconscious?

At the center of the clearing Derek paused and breathed deeply. Stiles could see the anxiety held in the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders, traits anyone unfamiliar with the Hale prince would attribute to Derek being a stern man.

Derek’s voice held power as he began.

“In war there is little time for thought. Strategy comes in the lulls between battles, however in the thick of the fighting - as many of you I’m sure know - there is only time for action.” 

Derek then held up a parchment Stiles had initially missed. It was small and rolled up like a scroll, clutched so tightly in Derek’s hands that Stiles feared the werewolf might crush the delicate paper.

“The bookends of battles are ill defined. For some the fighting ends when camp is pitched. For others, the end comes when the war does. There was a soldier sworn loyal to the Hale Allied Forces who could not leave the battlefield so long as innocents were in danger. In an instant his strategy left him and he made decisions - treasonous decisions - that while wrong, saved the lives of thirty-seven civilians.”

Stiles felt his heart racing faster and faster as each pair of eyes found it’s way from watching Derek to boring holes into him.

_The pardon. Scott mentioned a pardon!_

Derek’s eyes now found Stiles’ as he continued.

“In the past weeks, Master Emissary Stiles has demonstrated that a lapse in judgement does not equate to a lapse in character. He has saved mine own life countless times both during and before the war. Just three weeks ago he used an ancient rite to sacrifice his own Judgement, taking the place of one of my dying Seconds, and was found worthy by the gods themselves. With this knowledge, I use the legal powers vested in me by virtue of my bloodline, my birthright, and my rank as Prince Commander of Hale and her allied forces to pardon Master Emissary Stiles Stilinski for the crime of treason, upholding the Judgement of the gods themselves.”

Holding Stiles’ gaze, Derek lifted the scroll - _the pardon_ \- out towards Stiles. Standing on shaky legs, the mage descended the stairs of the risers with measured steps, his eyes never breaking from Derek’s like a spell was cast between them. Hope swelled within the younger man. He had made so much progress in a short span of time with the Seconds, perhaps this was Derek’s olive branch.

Stiles crossed the distance to the center and stepped up onto the podium, accepting the parchment from Derek.

“Thank you.” He whispered airily, fighting the burn of tears that threatened to fall. He could see his father again, visit the Hill, travel without fear of being arrested or shot at any moment. _And to think I was ready to take the Long Road!_

Derek’s expression cracked in small increments. A face only Stiles could read clearly as it conveyed a longing and loss so deep it made Stiles’ breath falter briefly. Derek had missed him. Derek had _missed_ him. _Derek_ had missed _him_. 

_I broke him more than the rest - I wasn’t sure why..._ A hazy almost-memory of speaking with someone nagged at him for half a second before fading. 

_I wasn’t sure but what if..._

If they weren’t being watched by roughly a hundred diplomats and wizards, Stiles would have kissed Derek right there as heat passed between their gazes. 

And then the heat was very real and all around them. Explosions erupted from every direction on the outskirts of the clearing, rocking the ground violently and knocking Stiles into Derek. Diplomats screamed and emissaries sprung into action erecting protective barriers over the more vulnerable.

Stiles saw as Argent and Hale Allied warriors drew weapons to attack the other side. _This isn’t right!_

“This isn’t right!” Stiles shouted over the din to Derek who was wolfed-out and looming protectively over Stiles’ slighter frame.

“The Argents wanted peace as much as the Hales, they wouldn’t jeopardize that, not after the princess accepted the terms outright,” Stiles worked while he spoke, erecting a crackling magic barrier between the Hale and Argent forces before either side could attack. “This has to be someone else!”

“Kate!” Derek growled around fangs.

“Yes! Like Kate! She’s an enemy of her own people now-”

“No. Kate!” Derek pointed a claw towards a space behind Stiles who whirled around.

The exiled Argent walked smoothly towards them on the center dias, another bout of explosions lighting the air behind her as a band of some 50 armed fighters charged toward both the Argent and Allied Hale diplomats.

“Derek! How lovely to see you. Are you enjoying the festivities?”

Stiles stepped towards the hateful woman, “It’ll never work Kate. Argents want this deal as badly as the Hales and Allies. You’ve lost!”

“Your peasant brat is now your guard dog Der-bear? I thought I made my feelings about the mageling clear on the dance floor three years ago!”

Kate charged forward, a dirk in hand and Derek pushed past Stiles to meet her. They fought brutally as Derek did his best to wrestle the undoubtedly poisoned blade away from Kate. Stiles kept his Spark at the ready, crafting tiny intricate magic shields whenever the blade came close to Derek’s skin. 

With all of his focus on protecting Derek, Stiles released the barrier between Hale and Argent forces. By the sound of the shouts and fighting, the two sides were working together against a common foe. 

_No better way than bloodshed to cement a shaky peace accord._ Stiles mused bitterly before another close call from Kate’s blade drew his attention back to defending his Prince Commander.

Even with all the fighting, something was off. Kate was a strategist first and foremost. She was smart and well versed with magic - Stiles had long wondered if she was the ‘failed student’ Deaton had once mentioned. A head-on attack wasn’t her style. Backstabbing though, Kate was a master at deception.

“Misdirection,” Stiles whispered to himself as he used a spell to force Kate back a few steps from Derek. “She’s a diversion. This is all a diversion” Casting a thin web of magic over the area, Stiles sought the true intentions behind Kate’s band. The warriors were holding their own against her band, the mages were constructing a protective ring around the diplomats who had not taken up arms, and the archers- Wait.

“Archers!” Stiles called, catching sight of an arrow head’s glint through the trees. A sudden volley of arrows loosed from the trees surrounding the clearing and Stiles threw up a shield on instinct. It was larger, larger than any shield Stiles had ever constructed, but lasted a mere second, just long enough to shatter the arrows before they could hit their targets.

“Take cover!” Stiles tried to call out, but he felt like the air had been knocked out of him. The spell had cost him too much. The archers would only fire again, and Stiles couldn’t realistically keep up this level of magic use. Leaving Derek alone with Kate was also out of the question. She was too dangerous. This skirmish needed to end, and end quickly - preferably before another volley of arrows could be nocked.

In a smooth motion, Stiles pressed his hand into the center of the stone dais and asked as politely yet quickly as he could if the stone would kindly comply. It was an impossible gamble, betting his life and a hundred others on the chance that the citadels’ neutral grounds were picked for a reason.

The warmth of ley lines met him in turn and the stone dais, a dormant nemeton, flooded with magic.

As he lifted his hand, a stone pillar rose from the ground. The thrum of bow strings sounded again and Stiles only hoped some of the mages could keep the diplomats safe from the arrows headed their way. 

“Derek! Here!” Stiles called, and Derek needed little coaching in pressing Kate firmly against the pillar where Stiles used the remains of his magic and his connection to the ley lines to hold her tightly with coils of cool lightning.

“It’s over!” Derek roared at Kate, having the added bonus of cutting through the clamor of the clearing. All eyes - ally and foe - turned to look at the stone pillar raised at the center of the dais. 

“Lay down your weapons!” King Christopher called out crisply, his own tunic red from a cut on his arm and another at his brow. 

“Archers. In trees.” Stiles grit out as he maintained the spell.

Derek nodded and turned to the Allied Hale forces still standing, “Get the archers out of the trees!” Another explosive from behind the risers shook the earth once more. “And someone for the gods’ sake, check for more bombs!” 

Kate laughed and laughed from her spot on the podium.

“Such a party pooper Der-derbear! Let the fireworks happen!” 

“You’re insane.” Derek growled at her. “Insane and twisted, but I’ll make sure you will never hurt anyone again.” Derek reached out for her throat as King Christopher stepped onto the dais.

Kate tilted her head slightly and with a coy smile asked, “Are you sure about that?”

A wave of dark miasma blew outwards from Kate, a powerful dark spell like Stiles had never felt. It spilled into his bones and circled around his Spark, siphoning light and warmth. Panicked, Stiles reflexively released his connection to the nemeton and called all of his magic back to himself to protect his Spark as it dwindled to a mere flicker. The dark emptiness inside him hurt and burned in it’s own cold acidic way. Crumpling in on himself, a shrill whine escaped before Stiles could cut it off. He distantly felt Derek’s hand clamp around his shoulder

Kate stepped smoothly away from the stone pillar the moment Stiles’ spell lifted. “You were saying?” Her smile was cruel and sharp. “I propose a new set of accords. You agree to my terms and I’ll spare a few of you.” She laughed and extended a hand, dark wind snapped at their clothes and pulled everyone towards the center of the clearing. With her other hand, Kate used the dark miasma to pull King Christopher closer and forced him against the stone pillar. The darkness snapped and spun, becoming heavy black ropes which bound the king to the stone. 

“Dear brother, you banished me. I’m hurt.” Kate pouted.

“You can’t do this Kate.” King Christopher bit out.

“So you say, but there’s simply no one to stop me.” She patted her brother’s cheek patronizingly and turned to survey her victory.

“We stopped you before. We’ll do it again!” That was Scott’s voice. 

_Don’t draw her attention idiot!_ Stiles opened his eyes to slits so he could spy his friend standing beside Princess Allison at the edge of the dias. Allison shot off an arrow from her crossbow which bounced harmlessly off a dark hazy shield which formed around the dark mage.

“Oh that’s cute. My niece is helping the little country noble who thinks he could ever put a dent in my plans. No, Baby Beacon, you were never smart enough sweetie. Oh but you did make such a splendid puppet, bringing me maps and sensitive reports whenever I asked. Not that you would remember it, but we had such a good year together, that is until your name changed.” Kate tutted before growing still and quiet. “Your name changed.” She stated again and spunn, glaring at the huddled form of Stiles on the ground, Derek at his side.

“You. You useless untrained backwater mage, that was you wasn’t it!” Kate shouted with a renewed furry. She took a furious step forward and then another, “Of course! It was never about saving a handful of peasants and a useless village!”

Derek growled as she approached.

“You’re in my way mutt,” Kate fired back. With a snap of her fingers, the black winds whipped a knife out of her belt aimed directly for Derek’s heart.

Stiles’ arm shot out, willing a magic shield he did not have the energy to create to appear between Derek’s heart and the poisoned knife. He pushed against the dark magic, begging his Spark to reignite, to save the man he was realizing he could not live without. His magic mixed with Kate’s, pulling her magic towards his. And then, there in his hand, was her knife.

“Hunh.” Stiles coughed. Glaring at the blade and then at the hateful woman who threw it, “I didn’t think that would actually work.”

 _Well, if it worked once_ … 

Stiles closed his fist and he pulled. He pulled with his flickering Spark and yanked Kate’s magic away from her. He acted as a conduit, pulling her tainted magic through himself and pouring it into the ocean of ley line magic writhing beneath them. He pulled and hardly felt Derek’s hands holding his body upright. He pulled and barely noticed the wall of friends and allies that came between him and the dark mage. He pulled and scarcely registered Kate’s screams.

Stiles pulled Kate’s magic until the last embers of her Spark extinguished.

Gasping from where she’d fallen to her knees, the woman stared wide eyed at Stiles and whispered, “But my magic... That spell shouldn’t have let you… How?”

“Come on Kate, a powerful mage like you must know how to stop if you over commit.”

The black swirls having faded, sunlight poured into the clearing again. King Christopher approached Kate’s shivering form while Derek turned his focus to Stiles just as tension lifted from the mage’s body and he leaned limply into Derek’s grip.

“Stiles?”

“I’m okay. My Spark, it’s still there, just feels… dirty?”

“Kate’s magic?”

“Diluted by the ley lines, it’s just residue-y in me now. Kinda like a nasty taste in my mouth. Hopefully Deaton has an idea how to fix that.” Stiles smiled loosely at the werewolf who smoothly shed his wolfish features.

“Can you stand?” Derek asked softly.

“Yeah, I think I can- uh!” Stiles’ vision swam and his right side felt numb. “Nope, that was a lie.”

“Stiles, your hand!” Scott approached, the princess at his side and Derek swiftly took Stiles’ hands in his own. 

“Wha-?” Stiles lolled his head to look and saw what the others were staring at.

“Shit.”

“Stiles-”

“Shittiest Shit!”

“Stiles!”

“Her fucking poison blade fucking nicked me! Shit!” Air wasn’t coming in. He couldn’t breathe. Stiles felt pinned as he clutched his hand to his chest, a single red slit only millimeters in length stood out brightly against his pale palm. 

“Stiles, you need to breathe.” Scott said in the fake sort of calm someone fakes when they’re not calm but want other people to be calm. “I’m not calm, but you’re panicking, that’s not going to help anything.”

“Shit. Did I say that out loud?” Stiles’ voice was thin, airless, and his vision swam then darkened, “Double shit.”

“Stiles?” That was Master Deaton’s voice. Stiles tried to turn his head towards his former tutor. 

“I was Judged Deets.”

“I know.”

“You only get Judged once.”

“I know, Stiles.”

“Wha’s gonna hap’n?” His lips were becoming numb.

“That… I… I don’t know.” And gods, there wasn’t anything scarier than something Master Deaton didn’t know.

“Don’t wanna go.”

A pause, and then brokenly, Master Deaton whispered, “I know.” so solemnly Stiles knew the master emissary blamed himself. He’d failed two students this day.

Warm arms wrapped around Stiles and he smelled the scent of wood smoke and cinnamon. Derek.

“There has to be something-” Derek’s timbre cut off suddenly, Stiles imagined Deaton was probably shaking his head. “Stiles! You’re not leaving, not again!”

“Der-k,” Was all Stiles could get out, his breath coming shallowly.

“I’m so sorry Stiles, don’t go, I’m sorry.”

The world faded, or perhaps Stiles faded. He couldn’t really tell. His last thought came when a single tear fell upon his brow, _I’m sorry too._

*****

Scott held Allison’s hand tightly as they all stared into the fire. Isaac numbly added another log. 

“I hate waiting.” Erica spoke softly as the flames consumed the new logs. 

“Lydia’s with him. We should check on her after… after.” Isaac hunched in on himself and leaned into Boyd when the larger were wrapped an arm around him. “If I hadn’t gotten cut he never would have-”

“Isaac stop.” Boyd said gently.

“Maybe I could trade places with him now! He took my Judging last time, I’ll take his now!”

“He has no Judgement for you to take. He’s been Judged and that only happens once.” Allison offered quietly. “He knew the risk.”

“Did he though?” Erica asked, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames, “Stiles never seemed the sort to take mortality seriously, at least not his own.”

The group quieted and Scott excused himself. Freeing his hand from Allison’s, he shook his head when her eyes asked if he wanted company. While he was willing to give his heart to her, she wasn’t who he needed to speak with.

Scott made his way in the fading light towards Derek’s tent where they’d laid Stiles’ body after the skirmish which had ended scarcely an hour earlier. Deaton had said Stiles didn’t have much time. The mage’s body was still weak from three weeks of unconsciousness and the poison was potent - some sort of new concentrate Kate had concocted from what remained of her supply. The young mage wasn’t conscious, yet he lingered. Scott approached where Derek stood, facing the tent canvas, listening to the mage’s weak heartbeats.

“Lydia inside?” Scott asked, his eyes fixed on his Alpha.

Derek spoke like a living statue, cold and without movement, “She’s with him. Deaton said it won’t be long now.”

Scott nodded and they stood in silence for a time, listening as the space between heart beats grew. There was a long absence when they thought that was the end, but Stiles’ heart beat shallowly again.

Derek breathed out a broken sob, “This is all wrong!” He was just Judged! The pardon- we only just got him back and now this!”

“Now this.” Scott felt tears burning at his eyes and he scrubbed them away.

So softly Scott nearly missed it, Derek uttered, “I never… never told him…”

“Yeah… I think he knew though.” Scott laid a heavy hand on Derek’s shoulder and squeezed gently, “He felt the same way.”

“That’s supposed to make this better?”

“No… yes… maybe?” Scott sighed shakily, “You know what it would have been like. You can look back and see the… the devotion. That’s more than most can say.”

They waited together, listening until the heart beats stopped and the banshee screamed.

They stood in place as the stars filled the sky and Lydia exited the tent smelling of fresh tears. Master Deaton followed her out.

“He left this for the two of you.” Deaton passed them a sealed parchment. As Scott reached to take it, Deaton did not not immediately let go. “Burn it after reading. This letter puts the entire Emissaries' Citadel in danger. Stiles would not have wanted that.”

The two werewolves nodded and glanced from the tent to the letter and back to the tent for a long while.. 

“I don’t want…”

Derek knew what Scott was trying to say.

“I don’t want to see him like that either.” They left the silent tent and walked to the edge of camp before breaking the letter’s seal. By the light of the moon, they read the Informant’s last letter.

*****

_Master Deaton told me to never write this letter, however I have to. There are so many uncertainties in the world, so many things left unsaid and I’m appalled at how many are of my own creation. I’m sorry that I hurt so many with my silence. So let’s dispel at least one mystery, shall we? I am the Informant. I am the one feeding the Hale Allied Forces with information about Argent movements - specifically what King Gerard and Princess Katherine are up to. I know the Emissaries' Citadel is supposed to be impartial, however the atrocities Gerard and Kate are trying to pull off are more than even my master can accept. He let me continue to scry and write these letters knowing it breaks the Citadel’s stance of neutrality - but definitely has me thinking these mages meddle all over the realms, but alas, I digress._

_I came to the Emissaries' Citadel in exile. I was exiled for committing treason, but I could never tell my friends why I broke their trust. Kate told me once, the night we met actually, that she would make a puppet of my best friend by manipulating him with his true name. I saw it, the night I left for Fernridge, I saw my best friend copying troop movements and stealing documents with no comprehension in his eyes. I couldn’t let that keep happening. It would destroy him. It would destroy the Hill. I made the choice to break his heart so grief would change his name - his true name. Another friend, a banshee told me I might have done more than that. I hurt people I hadn’t intended, changed more names than I could account for - my prince and my own included. Perhaps writing these letters as the Informant will make up for the pain I have caused, and if not, at least I am in a way able to keep them safe._

_I care for them dearly even at this distance. I doubt that will ever change, nor would I want it to._

_Honestly yours,_

_The Informant - Stiles - the Loyal Betrayer_

_Formerly Stilinski of the Hill, the Loyal Servant._

*****

Stiles’ words sat heavily between them.

“He really did foil her plot.” Scott shuddered.

“He did.”

“Kate said I was… I was her mole, for a year. A year. How many people do you think died because I gave Kate intel?” A tinge of panic bled into Scott’s words.

“I don’t know Scott.”

“Why didn’t I remember?!”

“She didn’t want you to. With your True Name she could manipulate you however she wanted.”

“What if I- I could have killed people! I could have killed you!”

“You didn’t.”

“If I was found out to be a traitor that would have- the Hill would lose Hale support. Argent forces would have-”

“Scott. Stop. No one knew. Stiles still saved you. He saved all of us.”

Scott breathed and cried and fell into Derek.

Sometime later, Scott clutched the letter tightly in his hand, “He was the Informant. This whole time he was keeping an eye on us.”

Derek ran a hand over his face and choked back tears of his own, “Makes sense now, doesn’t it. How did we not realize?”

Scott shrugged, “How did you not realize you loved him until…” Scott couldn’t say it.

Derek sighed and rubbed his face. 

“I couldn’t get over how betrayed I felt. It was like a barrier, a wall between us.”

“What’s there now?” Scott asked so softly Derek couldn’t be sure his second had truly spoken.

“Love.” The word broke upon the quiet night are. Derek held onto Scott so the grief wouldn’t carry him away as he elaborated, “He earned his redemption, he never stopped protecting us because he loved us. All that’s left is gratitude and love.”

Scott hummed in agreement.

“Loyal Betrayer.” Scott read the name aloud from where Stiles had signed the letter. “Do you think that’s really how Stiles saw himself?” Scott questioned a moment later.

“Probably.”

“We should give him a new name.”

Derek nodded, “What did you have in mind?”

“‘Loyal to a Fault’.”

Derek laughed darkly, “That fits.”

“What about, ‘Throws self into Danger’.”

“‘No Danger is too Dangerous’.”

“‘No Peril too Perilous’.”

“‘Magic beats arrows’.”

“‘Liberator of performing primates!’.” 

Scott and Derek laughed and cried and held on to one another as they mourned. A long time later, as the sun was just about to rise, Derek spoke calmly.

“Redeemed Hero and Beloved Protector.”

Scott felt the truth of Derek’s words fill the air between them, let something tight in his chest loosened and he could breathe for the first time since Stiles admitted to committing treason. “That’s how we’ll remember him.”

No sooner had he spoken than a banshee’s scream broke through the dawn air.

Derek and Scott turned to look at one another before dashing with superhuman speed back towards camp, expecting to find attackers - had some of Kate’s band escaped? Had someone exacted vengeance on Kate’s fighters being held prisoner?

They certainly had not expected a young beautiful woman to be exiting Derek’s tent.

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter?” The woman asked, brushing her long dark hair away from her face. Her smile was coy and knowing.

Scott stepped forward, “You were in the Prince Commander’s tent. It matters.”

“I was visiting a friend. Perhaps you know him. Spitfire mage, tends to bite off more than he can chew. Good friend though, albeit a bit too self-sacrificing.”

Derek didn’t fight the growl that sounded in his throat, “What did you do to Stiles?”

“Paid him a visit. My you’re protective. I bet you’re feeling better now that your names are all sorted out, right?”

Scott squinted at the woman, “Wait… what?”

“Oops, pretend I didn’t say that. I’m kind of new to this whole ‘walking among the mortals’ thing. Oops. Cover blown.” The strange woman shrugged with a self-deprecating air. 

“Are you… You’re… One of the-!”

The woman practically squeaked as she rushed forward and slapped a hand over Scott’s mouth. “Keep it to yourself, okay? The Others would be really unhappy with me if they knew you knew.” She slowly removed her hand from Scott’s mouth when he nodded he understood.

“If you’re… _you_ … and you’re here, then… Stiles!” Scott dashed into the tent with Derek on his heels.

“Took you long enough.” Lydia smiled over at the pair from her seat beside Stiles’ bed. She held his hand gently and said softly, “He’s sleeping.”

Derek held his breath and listened to the renewed strength of Stiles’ heartbeat. 

“How?” He turned to the goddess who entered the tent behind them.

“Short answer, I’m a softie.” She offered them a sunny smile, “Short-ish answer, the _Loyal Betrayer_ was Judged and could not be Judged again. _Beloved and Redeemed_ however is someone entirely new.”

“He… He changed his True name?” Scott stared wide eyed at their sleeping friend.

“Yes and no.” The goddess clarified, “He did the leg work, but it wasn't until you changed your own names that his could change too. It’s about balance. As long as you were _Betrayed,_ he had to be your _Betrayer_.”

“So he was Judged again?” Derek asked, taking Stiles’ other hand and marveling at the warmth he found there.

“Um…” The goddess looked contrite and glanced away.

“Um?” Scott’s eyes got impossibly wider. Did a goddess with the power of life and death just say _um?!_

“Because he couldn’t be Judged, he was stuck In Between, UnJudgeable. With a new name he could be Judged again, but… well I didn’t think that was very fair. He didn’t really get a chance to live as _Beloved and Redeemed_. I might have intentionally misinterpreted some godly laws and exploited a loophole oof-”

Scott wrapped the goddess in a hug chanting “Thank you” over and over into her dark curls.

“You’re certainly welcome.” Her laughter filled the air.

Allison and Derek’s Seconds poured into the tent and took in the scene. Erica sniffed and looked to Derek, “Stiles?!”

“He’s alive.” Derek couldn’t hold back a grin and no one mentioned the tears that fell. The air smelled of salt and water yet it was the relief and joy that was palpable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my literal deus ex machina! I was very nervous about posting this chapter - the way Stiles defeated Kate was rewritten like 8 times before I got to this point. Constructive criticism on that particular scene would be very appreciated!
> 
> Also.... I've written a novel?! I had no idea this had gotten so long?!!! :D
> 
> This is the last chapter before the epilogue! (I have not yet written the epilogue so it might take awhile before it's posted!) Thank you for following along on this journey! Kudos and feedback are always appreciated!


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happily ever after...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sappiness ahead!
> 
> I'm a sucker for happy endings... like sappy cheesey stupidly happy endings. So that's what I write. You're welcome :P

The ballroom was filled with colorful attire and glinting jewels spinning beneath the light of crystal chandeliers. There was an ease to the room, a collective sigh of relief as noble Argents danced alongside Leheys and Mahealanis, Whitmores, and Lady Martin herself. Derek even spotted his sisters competitively charming the pants off some besotted young man who had come with his family to celebrate the signing of the peace accords. Sipping his drink, Derek watched the fanfare from a shadowy pillar at the farthest edge of the dance floor.

“I thought I might find you here.” Boyd stepped up beside Derek, a glass of his own in hand.

“I’m not exactly hiding.”

Boyd grunted and they watched the pageantry together for a time, the lull in conversation almost companionable. Almost.

“Have you spoken?” Boyd asked suddenly. Derek knew that question was coming. He’d seen it in how Erica always bit her lip when he entered a room or how Isaac’s eyes would glance away and then back. It was in how Scott was absent most days in ways which weighed upon Derek’s mind. Now it seemed that Boyd, the softest spoken of their pack, was put to the task of asking what they had all wondered.

“I went to see him.”

“I know. I was there. He was unconscious and that was a week ago.”

“It’s been a busy week.” Derek tried not to sound petulant.

“So it has been.” Boyd dismissed Derek’s excuse with ease.

A peel of familiar laughter lilted across the dance floor to where they stood. The master emissary’s maroon suit stood out from the livelry of the other dancers. Lydia had commissioned the well fitted jacked, its high collar pressing against the porcelain skin of Stiles’ neck, giving him a long elegant look.

“He’s afraid you know,” Boyd spoke a moment later, “acts like we’re made of glass he could break with a few words. Erica’s reminding him how to loosen up.” Boyd tilted his drink to where Erica and Stiles were spinning to the rapid music, hand in hand.

“Good.” Derek watched them, his eyes never leaving Stiles’ smile.

“He’s asked after you.” Boyd’s voice was softer, hardly carrying over the din of music and dancers.

Derek sipped his drink.

“He won’t approach you, you know. Still blames himself for everything that went wrong. If you want him back, you’ll need to make the first move.”

Derek glared at his empty cup and placed it on the tray of a passing server.

“The song’s about to end. He’ll need a dance partner.” Without another word Boyd strode forward, leaving Derek alone among the shadows just as the orchestra played a final note. Derek watched as Boyd bowed and extended his hand to Erica who graciously accepted. Stiles watched, a slight smile balanced on his lips.

 _If you want him back_. Boyd’s words hung in the air. 

“Well, if you’re waiting for a more perfect opening, you’re not going to find one.” The new voice caused Derek to jump and whirl towards the speaker.

“And let me tell you, I’ve seen regrets.” The goddess Kira was idly leaning against the marble pillar beside his own, “If you let him go now, this is the moment you’ll look back on forever wishing for a second chance.” 

“I’m not sure I-”

“Hang on, you’re 'not sure'?” The goddess held up a hand to stop him, “You do realize that you possess a love for him so great that the universe had to change the name of his _soul_ to ‘Beloved’ just to keep things balanced.”

“Uh, yeah but-”

“You love him and you’re sure of it! Now go dance with him before someone else does!” 

There was a tugging sensation followed by a forceful _pull_ and Derek found himself in the next instant some 50 meters away from his pillar, standing in front of Stiles. Derek imagined his face must look as surprised as the mage’s. 

“Prince Commander…” Stiles bent to a formal bow.

Derek took a shallow breath and stretched out a hand.

“Derek.” He reintroduced himself in the same manner Stiles had when they first met on this ballroom floor three years earlier. 

Stiles eyed his hand like it was about to bite him.

“Derek?”

“It’s a handshake… you shake it.” Derek grimaced and almost pulled his hand back when Stiles’ warm hand slotted into his.

“I know, I just… Are you sure?”

“About my name?”

“No! This… Us, er well, me?”

The music picked up again and the dancers began moving, Derek gently squeezed Stiles’ hand in his own.

“What if for now, I’m sure about wanting to dance… with you.”

Stiles nodded, his lips pulling back into a hesitant smile.

They danced through the first song and onto a second, music and movement flowing through them where their words had gotten stuck. Derek’s eyes were fixed onto Stiles’, but the things he needed to say seemed locked away.

The music softened and slowed. Derek drew Stiles in close and the mage rested his head on Derek’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Stiles’ whisper no more than a brush against Derek’s ear.

“I know.” Derek held the mage a bit tighter.

“I… I didn’t know how else to- Scott was- and I-”

“Shhh, Stiles I know, Deaton gave me your letter.” Derek pulled away just enough to look Stiles in the eye, one hand cradling Stiles’ cheek. “I forgive you.”

Stiles’ eyes welled with tears and he pressed forward burying his face into Derek’s collar as the older man swayed them gently in time with musicians.

Derek ran a hand through Stiles’ hair, “I forgive you,” he repeated, “and I hope you can forgive me.”

Stiles pressed closer but hummed in confusion, “hunh?

“I lied. When you first came back, you told me you missed me and I…. I lied. I’ve missed you too, Stiles, every day. Once you were back I just kept making things worse and I love you.”

The confession slipped out just as the slower song was wrapping up and dancers were leaving the floor.

“...” Stiles froze against Derek’s shoulder. His breath stuttering and his heart racing in Derek’s ears, deafening in the quiet lull between songs.

“I understand if you don’t feel the same way. I’ve treated you terribly these past few weeks and-”

Stiles pulled back, his expression cutting Derek off. The mages eyes shone with more than tears. There was an understanding there, gleaming in whiskey eyes. His lips parted.

“I knew I’d broken something…” He spoke as if to himself, laying a hand gently over Derek’s heart. 

Then, glancing up and then away he said, “I knew you'd lied - back when you gave me the pardon, I could tell… and after, for a second I thought we'd…”

A beat passed as their eyes met once more and the heat from before was there waiting, as it always had been from their first dance. They leaned in closer, Derek’s hand tilting Stiles’ head with care. They moved in tandem until lips pressed and they knew what had been broken was mended. The names on their souls a perfect match. Both _Beloved by the other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you immensely for reading and for your support along the way. My first time posting to AO3 (or any online platform) has been so positive and that's thanks to all of you!
> 
> Wishing you many pleasant reads ahead!


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